


Coaxing Water from Stone

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe- Javert Lives, Anal Sex, Conversations about love, Established Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, I would like to think that if Hugo decided Javert should have lived and changed, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Javert Cries During Sex, Javert is Oblivious to His Own Goddamn Feelings, Kissing, Long-Haired Javert, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, My boys deserve love okay, OCD Javert, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Seine, Sharing a Bed, These are the kinds of discussions he would have had with Valjean, Touch-Starved Javert, Valjean is Somewhat Uncomfortable with Javert Crying During Sex, for a hot second at least, implied/referenced eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-11-29 08:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: It has nearly been a year since that night on the bridge where Javert had stepped down and allowed Valjean to teach him friendship and mercy. In the months between, he has settled into Valjean's spare bedroom and has come to appreciate and even crave the company of the man he spent decades chasing. He is content and wants for nothing save for there to be less paperwork crossing his desk and less of Cosette's husband in his presence.Until, quite by accident, he sees Valjean as a flesh-and-blood man for the first time with needs like any other; needs that Javert finds himself echoing, reciprocating, and craving even more of. A man does not crave even the barest touch of his mere friend, so what is this emotion that fills Javert's chest until Valjean's fingers are wiping tears from his face?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright I've been hanging onto this for way too long and promised to post it like, months ago and never did (sorry!! ;^;) SO IT'S HERE NOW AT LAST. I don't even remember when I started this but it was at least a year ago, if not more, and I've poked and prodded it here and there and now it's done? I guess? I know right it surprised me too. It's also my First Proudly Published Porn, although by far not first written (>.>;; nor ur not getting the actual first it's bad. just. so bad.) and I'm actually real proud of it!! I wanna draw one scene of it eventually but that hasn't happened yet. (But... if you wanna draw it... yes... do it... go forth my children... my blessings upon you... it's really obvious which scene it is alright i'm not subtle.) 
> 
> As usual, thanks to the [Sewers of Paris discord server](http://kaleran.tumblr.com/post/167217651283/fellowshipofthegay-hi-les-mis-fandom-are-you) for appropriate yelling, reminding, and poking :33 Also, again, if you see weird and easily corrected errors, please tell me so I can fix them!! 
> 
> Fic is complete in it's entirety (as usual) and will post on Sundays. 
> 
> This chapter contains porn. :)

“Are you working today?”

Javert raises an eyebrow. “How can I make an arrest if I do not work? I will not allow your mercy to infect my conscious on this case.”

“I am not attempting to argue for your mercy,” Valjean says, a faint smile flickering across his lips. “I wanted to know if you will be home for supper.”

Home. A foreign concept that Javert has been growing familiar with for several months. When Cosette was married, Valjean had opened his home to him and surprisingly Javert found himself accepting. He reasoned that Valjean would be lonely without his daughter and prone to destructive behavior he insists he will not do, but he cannot lie to himself and say his reasons were not entirely selfless. Valjean had taught him friendship and mercy and yet, despite the months spent around his person, he still craves even more of his company.

He does not understand why. Is it not enough to have Valjean’s forgiveness and friendship? Is it not enough to see Valjean’s rare smiles and hear his even rarer laughter? Is it not enough to be taught happiness and to be content every day? He does not allow himself to dwell on it as he has no answers and he certainly cannot ask Valjean.

So it is that he shares a roof with his once-foe.

“Most likely not,” Javert answers, dragging his eyes away from Valjean’s mouth which is no longer smiling. “I do not know when I will return. Perhaps not at all tonight.” He frowns at that. Since living with Valjean, returning to his dwellings has been something to look forward to. He has still not acclimated to such a feeling.

“Do not put yourself in danger,” Valjean asks of him. “I do not wish to see you—“

“I will do my best to avoid being shot again,” Javert cuts him off, even as he regards such a request with more amusement that irritation. It is not as if he enjoys being wounded even in the pursuit of justice. Valjean worries too much but Javert cannot help but take such words to heart. “I will attempt to keep myself from immediate danger.”

Again, Valjean’s lips flicker in a soft smile that Javert basks in despite how fast it disappears. He receives another smile when he leaves, as always. Some days such smiles that sustain him while dealing with criminals and irritating inferiors and without them he does not know if he would be responsible for his actions.

Javert had orchestrated a trap laid out for his most recent case and has high hopes for success. It would be satisfying if he could return to share supper with Valjean once this is over and done with.

Unfortunately, despite the hours spent in designing this operation, his quarry does not show. The longer Javert lies in wait the more impatient he gets. Finally, when the hour grows so late even Javert is yawning, he calls the whole thing off. All his planning has gone to waste and he scowls his entire walk home. He is still exhausted from the day despite being unable to make an arrest. He is no longer a young man who can survive on a few hours of sleep and still preform at full capacity.

It is quite late when Javert arrives home. Finally, he can allow himself to relax and let his exhaustion show itself. He enters quietly, knowing that even the slightest sound could possibly wake Valjean. He is a light sleeper and Javert does not want to disturb him. Usually, Valjean will wait for him, book in his hands and candle by his bedside, until Javert returns safely. He always does no matter how Javert protests that he should be resting. Valjean has no need to stay awake for him, but the knowledge that he is cared for and wanted is... comforting. Unfamiliar and alien, yes, but one he is growing to like all the same no matter Valjean’s foolish reasoning.

He hangs his coat and hat on the coat rack, his gloves already tucked in the pockets hours ago due to the heat, then removes his boots at the door and carries them with him to reduce noise. Valjean does not always sleep through the night and if he is indeed sleeping Javert will not interrupt his rest. There is no need for a light when the full moon spills silver through the window brighter than any candle, drenching the familiar room in soft shadows and comforting greys. He moves silently towards the room Valjean had designated as his, although he still feels like a guest in Valjean’s home. He believes he always will no matter the months he has lived here.

When he passes Valjean’s door, Javert pauses. There is no candle lit inside, but it is unlatched and pushed open a few inches as if in invitation. Perhaps Valjean is still awake and wishes to speak with him. Valjean always wishes to speak with him when Javert returns home, although Javert suspects it is to make certain he did not do anything reckless to endanger himself.

Javert pushes open the door with a light hand, boots held firmly in the other, and freezes as the sight. He had expected to see Valjean asleep, or perhaps praying in the dark, but he had not expected this. Valjean is very much awake; however he has not noticed Javert standing in his doorway. No, Valjean’s focus is on a much more private need, one that Javert had never dared imagine Valjean attending.

The night is warm, so warm in fact that Valjean had apparently decided to forgo a nightshirt entirely and has kicked his blankets to the foot of the bed. The moon shining through the window paints the plains of Valjean’s strong chest with bold strokes of silver, his hair and beard unnaturally bright. The muscles of his arms and thighs are accentuated by crisp shadows and white highlights, the rest of him in tones of grey. He is beautiful, he is beyond words, but that is not what causes Javert’s heart to stop in his chest and his mouth to suddenly become dry.

There, at the junction of his legs, Valjean’s erection is flush against his stomach and mostly hidden by his large hand wrapped around it.

Javert has thought of Valjean as many things: a criminal, a superior, a Saint, a friend. Never before has he thought of Valjean like this even in passing. Never before has he thought of Valjean lost in the passions of the flesh. Never before has he wondered what sounds he would make, how his eyes would close in pleasure, how he would feel with his strong hands on Javert’s hips, filling him to the brim and—

No, he has never once thought of Valjean in such ways, has never desired another quite like this and never so strongly until this moment. How can he not, with Valjean laid before him like a living statue carved from flawless marble?

Valjean’s stomach flexes and his hips give a slow, deliberate roll, pushing his cock through the sheath of his hand. The head of it is flushed dark, beads of liquid emerging from the tip that are quickly swiped away by his thumb in a rough motion. Javert cannot look away, caught still and silent by the sight.

He should turn away, he should leave and return to his room and never speak of this to his friend. He should forget he ever pushed open Valjean’s door tonight. It is improper, immoral to some, but, not for the first time, Javert cannot do what is right. He is helpless, enraptured by the sight of Valjean like this, desires he did not even know existed for his first and only friend rising to the surface of his mind. How would it feel to have that same hand wrapped around his own length? Would he take Javert as slow as this, never quickening his pace no matter how much Javert demanded it of him? Or perhaps he would take him rough and fast instead? Would Valjean allow him to take him between his thighs and press down on him, to feel Valjean moving both underneath and inside while Valjean rolls his hips like—

Valjean emits a groan, one that is quiet but breaks the silence of the night all the same, and rolls his hips again in that same deliberate motion that holds Javert captive. His face is slack and his eyes closed as if in sleep, but Valjean rarely looks so relaxed when truly sleeping. Javert’s eyes linger on his mouth where his teeth have bitten his bottom lip so hard it is dark with blood and wonders what it would be like to kiss him. His mouth is kind, but are his lips the same? As he watches, Valjean groans again and his lips form the shape of a word Javert cannot make out.

It could be anything. It might be a name. It might be _Javert’s_ name, which he finds himself wishing for, but Javert highly doubts that he is the one featured in Valjean’s fantasy. Why would he? He is not handsome like Valjean and it is unlikely Valjean would be imagining a man. Is it? Valjean has never shown an inkling of interest in anyone of this kind to Javert’s knowledge and certainly not for himself, but before tonight Javert did not even dare to think this facet of his friend even existed.

The word comes again with another thrust of Valjean’s hips and Javert finds himself halfway to Valjean’s bed without giving his feet permission to move. What is he doing, watching over Valjean like this? He should leave now, before Valjean opens his eyes to see him. If he knew, Valjean will surely be disgusted with him and throw him out of his home at once. His kindness must have limits, his forgiveness must end somewhere. Yes, he should leave and never think of this again, never imagine how beautiful Valjean’s form looks in the moonlight, never acknowledge how much he wants him, how he—

“ _Javert_ ,” Valjean sighs, eyes closed with a soft pleased smile on his face, and Javert’s heart stops.

His boots clatter to the floor, shattering the silence.

Valjean startles instantly, eyes flying open as he sits up. Javert cannot bring himself to look away when Valjean makes eye contact and finds he cannot say a single word. 

“Javert?” Valjean says again, this time panicked. He quickly grabs a portion of his blankets and covers himself up to his waist, his cheeks already flushed dark.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything.

“I-I did not here you come in. You had been gone for so long I thought perhaps you were, ah, working through the night as you said,” Valjean says. His words are rushed together in a panicked excuse, like he expects Javert to condemn him instead of the other way around.

“There- I did not- I,” Javert stutters, trying to make his own excuse, but what eventually comes out is, “ _Jean_ ,” in an exhale of breath that betrays his desires.

His feet take a step forward, again without his permission, and he forces himself to stop before he is close enough to touch Valjean. He has never wanted quite like this in his life and does not know how to deny himself. Valjean must know this. Surely his desires are obvious, both on his face and elsewhere.

Valjean blinks at the use of his given name, hands tightening in the blankets around him. He frowns and Javert wants to kiss him, and then Valjean’s eyebrows come together in confusion and Javert decides he wants to kiss those too and indeed every part of his friend that he is allowed.

“Javert?” Valjean asks again, somewhat softer and more fearful. “I- I can only apologize—“

Javert does not hear anything past his name on Valjean’s lips. It is not like said it before, in a breath like a prayer, but it is similar enough that it provokes an audible intake of breath from Javert that cuts off whatever Valjean was saying. They stare at each other, both caught between fear and desire.

Lust is not a new experience for Javert. He has felt it on occasion towards other men, but it was always a sinful annoyance his body demanded and not true desire. This is something more than simply lust. This does not feel like sin. This is Valjean, his friend and confidant, who had stubbornly forced friendship upon him despite their shared past. In Toulon he had witnessed how two men could fulfill such desires, if such violent coupling could be called fulfillment. Surely Valjean knows of it as well, but they are not young men and Javert does not desire Valjean for his form alone. He desires his kind smiles and his warm hands and whatever else Valjean is willing to bestow upon him. This emotion he feels, the one that warms his chest and races through his veins, is not simple lust but something else entirely. He does not know its name, but it is obvious that Valjean inspires it within him.

Javert takes a hesitant step, knees nearly touching the side of the bed now, reaching out a hand to touch him, then abruptly stops himself with a sudden, uncoordinated motion. He cannot take this from Valjean; he cannot take anything from Valjean! There has already been too much taken from him and Javert will not add to the debt he owes his friend. It must be given to him, a choice Valjean must willingly make for his own sake.

He expects Valjean to turn him away, to deny them both this obvious desire, but he does not. Perhaps it is because of the very late hour, perhaps it is because of the silver light that bathes them both in shades of grey, perhaps it is because of the flush that stains Valjean’s cheeks that only grows darker by the moment; but Valjean does not ask him to leave. Instead, Valjean silently reaches a hesitant hand to Javert’s face. His touch is light along the line of his jaw, yet it sets Javert’s pulse racing. Javert has always known Valjean is capable of gentleness, but this is something different entirely. Valjean touches him as if he is something fragile or easily bruised, as if Javert would break if he pressed too hard. He has known himself as a tool, a weapon, something to be wielded, but never before has he felt such a touch.

Still, Valjean says nothing. Javert’s hands are nearly shaking with the desire to reciprocate in his own inexperienced way and he squeezes them into fists at his sides, nails biting into the flesh of his palm. Then Valjean’s hand reaches his cravat and, after a slight hesitation where his hand trembles, tugs on it gently in a suggestion Javert is more than ready to follow. Javert does not have Valjean’s discipline, although he considers himself a disciplined man, but he never had to exercise it in such a way as this before.

Another wordless sound escapes Javert as he leans down and captures Valjean’s lips in a rough, clumsy kiss, holding Valjean’s broad shoulder in one hand for support while the other buries itself in Valjean’s white hair. He tries to keep his grip lax, to follow Valjean’s lead, but his efforts are clumsy at best. Their noses knock together until Javert turns his head to the side and his hands tighten briefly on Valjean before he remembers himself. 

Valjean makes a startled noise in the back of his throat but does not move to push him away. Instead, one hand holds fast to his waistcoat while the other comes around the back of Javert’s neck and fumbles with the leather cord that keeps Javert’s hair pulled back out of his face. It is untied with a clumsy hand, then tossed on the floor without care and Javert feels his hair fall around them like a curtain shielding them from view. He is released with his hair tangled in one of Valjean’s hands. Valjean is even more beautiful with his eyes open and looking at Javert with desire. It very nearly takes Javert’s breath away.

“Valjean,” Javert breathes, taking a moment to memorize the play of shadow and moonlight of his friend’s features, to observe the guarded desire on his friend’s face.

“Say my name,” Valjean asks in a whisper, smoothing back a lock of hair that falls in Javert’s face when he looks down again. “You said it before. Use my name—"

“Jean,” Javert obeys, helpless. “Jean—"

Valjean pulls him forward into another kiss, tangling his hands fully in Javert’s hair and pulling gently in a suggestion to follow him into bed. Javert makes no resistance and gladly obeys this too. There is no reason to be so carefully quiet, but neither of them makes a sound above a low murmur. To do so would be to break the careful silence of the night, shattering whatever dream Javert must be caught in.

The way Valjean kisses him is at odds with the man Javert knows. Valjean’s teeth tug at his lips gently but firmly, his tongue insistently pressing against Javert’s at the first opportunity. His lips are demanding and hungry and Javert eagerly submits himself to them. Perhaps Valjean’s lips are not as restrained as the rest of him, or perhaps he too is half-thinking this is nothing more than a wistful dream.

Javert wants the rest of Valjean to be like his lips for Valjean deserves all the things he denies himself. He wants to pleasure Valjean until sweet sounds emerge from his throat, to kiss away the tension Javert can still feel in his arms, to take Valjean’s flesh in his own body until they are both satisfied and spent. Valjean’s hands are fumbling with the buttons on Javert’s waistcoat, all the while holding him captive with rough lips and a seeking tongue. Javert’s hands explore Valjean’s form in turn, taking his time to comb his fingers through the thick hair on his chest and run apologetic fingertips over the many raised scars he finds.

Javert reaches Valjean’s cock after his shirtsleeves are carelessly tossed aside. Valjean is larger in girth than he had first thought, but the thought of taking such a thick cock only excites him more and Javert kisses him again to muffle a moan. He cannot help himself and allows his hand to stroke his entire length to feel the weight of it in his grasp. He nearly misses Valjean’s sharp, near-silent intake of breath. Valjean must be using oil or some other substance as his hand slides far more easily than he expected. Yes, Valjean must have had the same education as himself, as Javert has also used such things in the past to control his body’s urges with his own hand.

“You have oil?” Javert asks, lips moving against Valjean’s ear.

“There, the table,” Valjean answers in a breath before Javert recaptures his lips.

He shudders under Javert’s hands as Javert strokes him again, taking his time as he saw Valjean doing with himself before. Valjean does not allow Javert to leave his grasp, hands trailing over Javert’s still-clothed hips and keeping Javert in place by hooking his fingers in the waistband of his trousers. After a time, he pushes Javert’s hands away and focuses on disrobing him, fingers dancing on his skin all the while and leaving warmth in their wake, and Javert is just as eager to comply.

It is only after the rest of Javert’s clothing join his waistcoat and shirtsleeves on the floor that Valjean removes his hands. He simply sits back, no longer embarrassed by his uncovered body now that Javert is in an equal state of undress, or perhaps simply too distracted to think of covering himself, and observes Javert with undue scrutiny. Javert knows himself to be nothing as pleasing as Valjean is, a multitude of scars both large and small from a lifetime of police work on display. His limbs are lean and angular and possess none of the broad power that Valjean has. Certainly, he is not worth such attention and certainly not from Valjean. He allows it for the moment, content to give Valjean everything he wants despite his inadequacies.

There is a gutted candle and a closed book with no parchment marking the page on the table next to Valjean’s bed. Valjean must have initially waited hours for Javert to return, enough to finish his book and for the candle to burn out. Beside the candle is what Javert is looking for; a small vial half-filled with what he assumes to be the oil Valjean spoke of. It is more than enough. When Valjean has had more than enough time to look at him, Javert reaches for it.

A small part of him, the part that is the Inspector that he can never completely silence, wonders if Valjean takes himself in hand often. Why else would he have such accessibility for such a specific product? Then he wonders how often Valjean has thought of him in this manner and his mind stutters and stalls on the idea of it. Valjean has never once indicated he wanted this. How many times has he desired to take Javert to bed with him, to kiss him and bestow adoring touched to his body?

Javert quickly coats his fingers in oil. Surely he cannot take Valjean immediately as he wishes; he should at least try to prepare himself. It is not as if he is unfamiliar with using his fingers to pleasure himself this way, but he has never done so in anticipation for something larger. He has thought of it, yes, but his need had never overcome his discipline before now.

Valjean gives a choked grasp at the first finger Javert inserts in himself. He is still watching, eyes unwavering as Javert stretches himself and adds another finger to assist.

“Javert,” Valjean says with no small amount of desire in his voice, “you are—“

“Yes,” Javert manages to say. For Valjean, he will give anything

Valjean takes him in his arms and presses soft kisses against his face, cutting Javert’s words short, his hands combing through his hair and brushing across Javert’s skin. Javert is glad he says nothing more. It is embarrassing enough he cannot quiet hold back his own groans, cannot quite prevent himself from imagining Valjean preparing him in the same way with thick fingers calloused from labor. Those same fingers trace halting patterns on his sides and tangle themselves in his hair like they desire more roughness than Valjean allows.

Three should be enough, he thinks, his mind dizzy from Valjean’s possessive hands and the warm hardness against his hip. Javert groans at the thought of taking that length, to have Valjean use his strength to thrust into him, and buries his face in the crook of Valjean’s neck. The scent that is uniquely Valjean fills his nostrils, the one Javert has come to associate with warm familiar hands and kind words he does not deserve and soft encouraging smiles. It intoxicates him, filling him not only with lust but also that other unfamiliar emotion that has his heart constricting and feeling too large at the same time.

“Jean,” Javert breathes, lips hardly moving against his friend’s neck. His skin should not be so soft after the trials he endured. “Jean—”

“Javert, I will not ask you to—“

“ _Please_ , Jean.”

Valjean’s hands tighten on him briefly, possessively, at his plea before they seem to remember themselves. Javert wishes they were less careful with him. They travel downwards his chest and past his stomach until they reach their destination. Valjean wraps a hand around him and Javert nearly chokes on his own breath. It should not feel so pleasurable, laying here half on top of his friend while he prepares himself and Valjean stroking him.

“I will,” Javert groans against Valjean’s neck, “Valjean, I will finish too soon.”

“You will?”

“How can—” Valjean strokes him again and Javert moans a swear at how good it feels.

Valjean takes him by the hair to kiss him once more, that demanding tongue easily breaching Javert’s lips. He makes no sound, but Javert does, soft groans escaping from his throat.

He pulls himself away with great reluctance and straddles Valjean’s hips, pressing at Valjean’s shoulders until he is once again lying flat on his back. He is more beautiful from his angle, viewed from above, the moonlight casing soft shadows in his face and his white hair spread about his head like a halo. Javert spends a moment struck silent, reverently tracing the line of his jaw and the shadows of his collarbones.

“You should see yourself,” Javert says in a low murmur.

Valjean’s cheeks flush dark and he looks away, clearly flustered by such a comment.

“You are beautiful like this,” Javert continues, hands now admiring the muscle on his arms.

“I am not beautiful,” Valjean denies, his flush spreading to his neck and further. Javert cannot help but touch, smoothing his hands across the broad plains of Valjean’s chest. Under his palms, Valjean’s heart beats just as quickly as Javert’s own.

“Handsome, then.”

“I am not—“ Valjean gasps, cutting himself off when Javert strokes him with a firm hand.

Javert reached for the vial of oil again, coating his fingers once more and taking his time to lavish attention on Valjean’s cock. That done, the vial is tossed aside and Javert takes a breath to calm himself. It has been a long time since he has done this, since before he lived with Valjean, alone in his own bed with only his fingers for company. This will be different, better, with Valjean beneath him bathed in shadow and light.

He groans as he presses against Valjean’s cock, lowering himself slowly until he is finally seated. Valjean’s hands are like iron against his thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises Javert will certainly feel in the morning. Even still, Valjean is nearly silent. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut and biting at his lower lip. Javert wishes he would not be so silent.

“Valjean,” Javert groans, reveling in the pleasant burn of how stretched he is around Valjean’s cock. “Jean, by God you feel—“ He cannot finish his sentence, his own hands are bracing themselves on Valjean’s wide chest, the muscle shifting as Valjean tenses and relaxes.

Javert does not move for many long moments, adjusting to Valjean’s girth inside him. Valjean’s hands wander, gently soothing his sides and even stroking along his face. His hands are once again soft and careful, and somehow it is that which has Javert’s chest warming to the point where it feels like a burning ember and he blinks to clear his vision. He is overwhelmed by Valjean’s kindness, even in this, how Valjean touches him as if he is some fragile thing deeply valued.

When he does move, giving a tentative roll of his hips, Valjean’s eyes grow wide in surprise.

“Oh,” Valjean gasps softly, once again gripping tight to Javert’s thighs.

Javert would echo the sentiment had he had voice to do so. His hands shake on Valjean’s chest as he pushes back, fucking himself on Valjean’s cock. Valjean is so thick inside him, so warm, filling him entirely when Javert is fully seated on his lap. Soon enough Valjean’s hips are meeting his in slow thrusts and drawing groans and soft sounds from Javert’s lips.

He wonders what they must look like from Valjean’s doorframe; backlit by moonlight performing lewd acts. Such a sight should be obscene, yet Javert almost wishes such a moment could be captured visually. Valjean is magnificent in a way Javert had never known to imagine. There is a restrained power in every roll of his hips, his stomach flexing with every movement, the silver light of the moon highlighting each and every powerful muscle Valjean possesses.

It is difficult to muffle his own sounds of pleasure as Valjean takes him. He seems to be in no hurry at all, keeping the movement of his hips slow and deliberate and all the more intense for it. Javert almost wishes Valjean would go faster, to take Javert’s hips in strong hands and keep him steady, but he is more than content with this. It seems fitting for them to be so careful with one another in this after being adversaries for nearly as long as Javert can remember. Strange emotions fill his chest, nearly so much that he feels he might burst, and he finds himself drowning in that unfamiliar feeling.

Valjean stills his movements, looking up at him in concern. Javert looks down, confused. Why would he stop when it is clear they are both taking pleasure from this?

One of Valjean’s hand’s leaves Javert’s hips and travels to his face, fingertips feather-light on his skin. They come away shining with wetness.

Javert touches his own face to find it damp and wet and he stares at his hand in confusion. It is only now that he notices his vision is blurred with tears he did not realize he was shedding. He wipes them away quickly, scowling at them. There is no reason for him to weep, yet they do not stop.

Valjean’s eyes soften and he cradles Javert’s face in his hands, thumbs wiping away the tears. Javert’s breath shudders in his chest as he submits himself entirely to Valjean’s gentle hands. Another tear falls from his eyes and Valjean soothes that away too.

After allowing Valjean’s attentions for a moment, he pulls his face from Valjean’s gentle touch and quickly wipes the wetness from his eyes with the back of his hand once more. It does not help as much as he wished. He scowls at the evidence of it on his fingertips and decides to ignore it and hopes Valjean will leave it alone. Were they not enjoying each other quite thoroughly just moments ago?

Javert presses down on Valjean once more, his hands splayed across Valjean’s vast chest. Despite the look of worry that lingers on Valjean’s face, he is still thick and hard inside him. Unfortunately, Valjean is not so easily distracted and reaches for Javert’s face once more. Javert pauses to bat his hands away, then continues to ride him and take pleasure in the warm feeling of him.

Valjean’s face is a mixture of familiar doubt and unfamiliar pleasure. Javert quickly decides it is annoying and that he vastly prefers the soft look of adoration Valjean had previously worn for him. Valjean ceases the attempts to wipe Javert’s tears away and tentatively returns Javert’s movements. His hands are somehow softer, gentler, with worry in every soft caress. That too is annoying.

Javert growls at him impatiently, fixing a look of annoyance on Valjean. He does not want Valjean to be gentle with him for fear of the tears falling from his eyes at such obvious affection. No, he simply wants Valjean to touch him as he had been; with care and admiration and not like this out of fear. Javert is not some fragile thing simply because he is weeping for reasons unknown.

Valjean looks up, face uncertain, but he resumes his deep, deliberately slow pace. Javert rides him eagerly, again captivated by the light of the moon on Valjean’s silver skin. Valjean is still biting his lip to keep silent, the skin there once again dark and tempting. There is no reason why Javert should not kiss him and hear the sounds Valjean is silencing. Perhaps that would distract Valjean from his tears.

The angle is awkward and Javert knows his body will protest in the morning, but he cannot bring himself to care as he falls with his elbows framing Valjean’s head to kiss him. Valjean groans beautifully against his lips, whispering Javert’s name into his mouth with lips forming familiar syllables, and Javert’s breath once again catches in his chest and releases with a shudder. He feels calloused hands on his hips and then Valjean manages to grind against that place within him that has Javert swearing breathlessly against Valjean’s lips.

“Again, Jean,” Javert tries to demand. It comes as a sobbed plea instead.

Valjean obeys, arms folding around Javert in what could almost be called an embrace and grinding his hips against Javert’s in an effort to somehow bring them closer together. Javert rests his forehead against Valjean’s chest with his hair falling around him, tears still falling from his eyes, faintly wondering how he had never thought of Valjean like this before. Perhaps it is because he thought Valjean too pure for such things, devoting himself to God and nothing else. Even now, Valjean does not use the Lord’s name in vain while Javert finds himself praying that this pleasure will never end.

Valjean presses his lips against the side of Javert’s head and mutters something unintelligible. Javert can hardly concentrate on Valjean’s words. He is close, his cock caught between them and providing additional pleasure. He presses his mouth against the side of Valjean’s neck, tasting salt. It does not deter him and he does it again, daring to graze his teeth against Valjean’s skin. He is rewarded with a wordless sound and a stutter of Valjean’s hips.

“Jean, are you—“

“Yes,” Valjean answers in a quiet groan.

Javert reaches to take himself in hand properly, but Valjean is already there. Having Valjean in him and around him excites him more than Javert expected. It is not long before his fingers grip Valjean’s shoulders tightly and he finds release with a moan approximating Valjean’s name. Valjean follows him shortly, teeth again worrying his lip and remaining near silent. Javert wishes to hear him unrestrained rather than quiet and muffled.

They do not move from each other for many minutes, catching their breath as sweat dries on their skin. Javert straightens his legs into a more comfortable position but does not dare to leave him. There is comfort in the embrace Valjean has him in. Javert tries to remember the last time he was embraced and cannot think of a single instance. He savors every inch of contact between them. Surely he is too heavy to be comfortable for Valjean, no matter how strong he is, yet he cannot bring himself to move. Instead he stays where he is and rests his head on Valjean’s shoulder and finds contentment simply breathing with him.

He does not know how long they lay there, Javert halfway asleep, when Valjean moves a hand to again wipe wetness from Javert’s face. The unwanted tears had not stopped when Javert wished them too and now they are drying on his face. He allows Valjean to lavish attention on him for a few moments before he finally untangles himself from Valjean to lay beside him. Javert growls irritably at him when Valjean reaches for him again, but the sound is heavy with sleep and he can barely open his eyes enough to glare at Valjean.

Valjean must have understood because he does not make a further attempt. Instead, Valjean rolls to his side and kisses Javert’s shoulder briefly. There is easy affection in the gesture, something Javert finds himself unequipped to handle. Then he thoughtlessly touches Javert’s arm in a gentle caress. Valjean’s eyelids close and Javert finds himself strangely fascinated by Valjean in sleep. He brings the sheet over them both, as he cannot imagine walking to his own bed, and fights his exhaustion to watch Valjean breathe before he too succumbs to unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains communication failure, yelling, sharing a bed, and sad, heartsick pining. :(

When he wakes, the first thing Javert notices is that he hurts. There are few parts of him that are not sore. Then he notices he is not in his own bed but Valjean’s, and he lays there confused for a moment before he remembers why he is so sore. He closes his eyes, fighting down his panic and embarrassment at his actions the night before. Once those emotions have been safely locked away, he notices that the other side of the bed is empty and cold. Javert blinks stupidly, attempting to wake his mind enough to figure out why such a sight distresses him.

Valjean is missing.

Quite suddenly, Javert finds himself numb and his mind empty of all thoughts. He sits up slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and stares blankly at the opposite wall. He remembers the soft touches, the quiet concern, the easy affection Valjean bestowed upon him that Javert does not know how to reciprocate. Perhaps it is Valjean who regrets sharing himself with Javert, ashamed of performing such acts with another man. Valjean is, after all, devoted to God.

Javert removes himself from the bed carefully, his limbs awkward and slow to respond and wincing at the soreness of his muscles. There are several purple bruises spotted in semicircles on his thighs and hips from Valjean’s grip on him and Javert spends a moment with his fingers hovering over them, but not quite close enough to touch. His clothes are neatly folded on Valjean’s desk, something Javert appreciates, but it confuses him why Valjean had done so if he was so ashamed that he left without awakening Javert. He dresses himself in yesterday’s trousers and shirtsleeves for modesty’s sake and walks to the sitting room where Valjean often likes to read in the morning.

Valjean is absent. His coat is missing from the rack near the door. There is no reason Valjean would have left so early unless he did not wish to speak to Javert.

It should not distress him as much as it does. Perhaps Valjean thinks it was a mistake, but Javert would very much like for it to happen again. In time, Valjean could teach him how to be gentle in the way Valjean deserves. He had thought, perhaps, Valjean might wish to embrace him once again or that Javert might be privileged to hear his name spoken with such softness even if only one more time. These are things Javert never knew he wanted, and, now that he knows what it is like to be so clearly adored, he only wants more of it. Surely such actions can only be born from something even more unknown to Javert than friendship for he is quite certain that friends do not give themselves to each other as he gave himself to Valjean.

He dresses himself in fresh clothing, the motions automatic and thoughtless. When he looks in the mirror to shave, he is startled to find his expression perfectly blank. He forces his face into a scowl, attempting to scold himself for allowing himself such weakness. There is no reason he should be upset to find Valjean gone, just as that was no reason to find himself with wet eyes when Valjean was so gentle with him.

Pushing the entire thing from his mind, he checks his pocket watch. It is a blessing he did not oversleep and in fact has plenty of time before he is due to arrive for his shift. Work will distract him from such idiotic musings that lead him nowhere. Valjean will surely be back by supper. He is always home in the evenings.

To his misfortune, work does not distract him, and the day passes with agonizing slowness. There are only reports to be written and reports to be read and reports to be filed. There is not a single sighting of the criminal Javert had attempted to capture the night before. Javert’s head is aching from deciphering the terrible handwriting on some of the forms. He does not enjoy reading at the best of times and he is certainly not enjoying it now. There is entirely too much time where his thoughts drift back to Valjean. He could not bear to lose him as a friend. Javert had never known friendship before Valjean prevented him from taking his own life over a year ago. There is little hope that he will find another to put up with his constant complaints and bitter sarcasm or know the way he likes things just so.

By the end of his shift, Javert is even more anxious about what Valjean might say to him than before. The possibilities swim through his mind and the only thing he is certain of is that he must apologize and attempt to salvage something of their friendship. He does not know quite how to do such a thing, save for how he once asked Madeleine to be dismissed from service. Perhaps it will do.

The sun is low in the sky as he walks home, and, had Valjean been with him, they would have stopped to admire the play of light upon the clouds. However, Valjean is not with him. Javert is consumed with his own thoughts and does not look upwards even once. He does not notice the beauty of things without Valjean there to draw his attention to them.

Valjean’s coat is hanging on the rack when he arrives. Javert does not remove his own when he enters Valjean’s home— for it has always been Valjean’s home and never truly Javert’s— and does not immediately start grumbling about his day as he normally would. Valjean is in his usual chair which his usual book, but seems hesitant to even look up at him. It is very like a blow to his chest, leaving him to rock back on his heals and prepare himself for any other such blows Valjean may deal him.

“Valjean,” Javert says, wishing he had permission to use Valjean’s given name but hardly daring to even think of speaking it. He stands at perfect parade rest in front of Valjean, feet together with his hands behind his back, chin raised more to maintain his dignity than anything else. It is an odd echo of how they stood years ago.

“Ah,” Valjean says, still avoiding his gaze. His cheeks turn pink from what can only be shame.

“I apologize for allowing my curiosity to overcome my common sense,” Javert says, seeing no reason why he should not confront the problem as soon as possible. “It was an invasion of your privacy and a display of weakness. You have my word that it will not happen again, but I will not protest if you no longer want me in your home.”

Valjean is silent for long moments. Then he says, “It is I who should be apologizing.”

“Do not apologize when I am the one at fault,” Javert argues. “Dismiss me from your company if you must, but I will not have you playing the martyr as you do often do.”

“You are the martyr here, Javert,” Valjean continues.

“I am not,” Javert’s snaps. “I am the perpetrator as I always have been!”

Valjean flinches minutely at his tone, but Javert cannot bring himself to apologize when Valjean is once again taking Javert’s blame upon himself.

“You never indicated interest,” Valjean says quietly, as if proof that it is Valjean who pressured him instead of the other way around.

“Have I not imposed on you enough?” Javert snarls. “Am I not already indebted to you?”

“You are not an imposition,” Valjean says, snapping his book closed as if in emphasis. “There is no debt. I absolve you of it! You have given me companionship and that is enough- including companionship I should not have asked of you.”

Javert’s headache has not abated due to how ridiculously stubborn Valjean is being and he growls in frustration. “I know less of this companionship you speak of than I know of friendship.”

“You seemed like you knew,” Valjean says, an odd tone in his voice.

“Why? Because I knew how to- why I should,” Javert stumbles, unwilling to voice what Valjean is no doubt referring to. “I know my preferences, Je- Valjean.” Valjean hides a flinch at the name Javert nearly said. Javert’s nails cut into his palms, using the physical pain to distract from his emotional turbulence. “I know that _I_ have never thought of a woman in such a way. I certainly did not expect the same of you.”

“But you—“

“I do not have practical experience!” Javert snarls, forcing his fists to his sides to stop himself from strangling his friend. “How could I? I never once thought to follow such desires, nor did I ever have the opportunity!”

Valjean stares at him, cheeks flushed, then hurriedly looks down at his lap. It must be embarrassment of talking of such a subject, one that is frowned upon by the Church. Then, in a quiet voice Valjean says, “I admit I have never imagined such things.”

Why was Javert’s name on his lips if he had never once thought of it as Valjean says? Why did he welcome him into his bed at all? Why did he allow him to place his hands on his skin and reciprocate in kind? Why did he leave him to wake alone and cold and with Valjean nowhere to be found?

Valjean looks away, broad shoulders curved inward as if to hide himself. White hair falls over his eyes, blocking Javert’s view of him. Javert waits, again in a stiff parade rest, for Valjean’s final verdict.

When Valjean continues to stay silent, Javert says, “I will find other living arrangements if that is what—“

“I want you to stay,” Valjean interrupts. “Please, Javert.”

He says Javert’s name like it is something to be valued, something beyond mere fondness, and Javert’s breath shakes in his chest. There is only sincerity in Valjean’s eyes and Javert cannot doubt him. If they regress to being friends as they were before, at least Javert has heard his name said so softly one last time.

“Then I will stay,” Javert says quietly. It is nearly unbelievable that Valjean has forgiven him for breaching his privacy and demanding something Valjean should not be forced to give. He cannot ask for it again. Valjean forgave him for this but never mentioned the future. Perhaps once was enough to satisfy his curiosity.

Valjean gives him a strained smile. It pains Javert to look at him like this when Javert crossed boundaries he never should have pushed.

He turns away, unbuttoning his coat to hang it properly and giving himself time to calm himself. There will be no asking of soft kisses or kind touches or if Javert may use his given name. Outerwear put away, he turns back to Valjean who averts his eyes quickly. Javert stands there, unsure of what to do. They may have forgiven each other, but he cannot think of Valjean the way he once did when he was ignorant of the taste of his mouth and the weight of his hands.

Valjean motions to Javert’s usual chair as if it were any other day and Javert obeys because he cannot disobey. His motions feel odd and stiff, like they should be doing something different. Perhaps Valjean does not wish to perform such acts a second time and will never again touch him in adoration. It is Javert’s fear that Valjean did not place feeling behind his soft caresses or, even worse, if Valjean is the one with regrets. 

“How was your day?” Valjean asks, startling his thoughts. The words sound forced.

Javert takes a moment to realign himself, to tear his thoughts away from how much he craves Valjean’s hands on his skin. He does not hunger for the other physical aspects as much as he desires these innocent things and does not understand why. He has certainly lived long enough without them.

“Uneventful,” Javert reports once he has control over his thoughts. He is uncertain how to act around Valjean now. Valjean most likely wishes to speak no more of the night before and will never mention it again. “It is likely the criminal has gone to ground and I will not see him again for some time. There was only paperwork today.”

“So that is why you are back early,” Valjean muses to himself.

It is only part of the reason he returned early. He will not admit his anxiety of losing Valjean to the mistake he committed.

They fall into a silence full of unsaid words. There have not been such silences between them for many months and now Javert is beginning to regret ever pushing open Valjean’s door. If he had not, there would not be such a heaviness in his chest and long, uncomfortable moments between himself and the only friend he has ever known. They cannot go back to the way they were, no matter their efforts.

They do not talk over supper either. Javert does not know what to say as it is Valjean who starts most of their conversations, even if he allows Javert to do most of the actual speaking. He eats mechanically, hardly tasting his food. Afterward, he flees to his room to avoid the suffocating lack of conversation that once flowed easily between them. It is much too early for bed, but he cannot bear the way Valjean refuses to look at him. If he had known how his actions would change the dynamics between them, he would have found strength to overcome his desires. He paces in his room for long hours, hands clasped behind his back as he fails to think of anything save how Valjean looked at him so adoringly last night and never will again. Sleep does not come to him.

Valjean does not look at him the next day, flinching away whenever Javert comes near him. Their conversation is short and uncomfortable and Javert does not know what to do.

Helpless to change anything, he throws himself into his work; spending long days and occasionally nights to distract himself and, although he would not admit it to even himself, to avoid Valjean. He works until he cannot think and falls into bed to fall into an uneasy sleep. Dark circles quickly become yet another unappealing feature about his face and he snaps at anyone who dares inquire about his health. He becomes more reckless than usual as the days go on and knows Valjean would scold him for it if he knew. However, Valjean does not ask and so Javert continues to work himself to the bone.

Valjean no longer waits awake for him to return since that day. Every night, no matter how exhausted he is, Javert cannot help but pause outside Valjean’s door. He never dares ask for permission to enter and never once has Valjean left his door open a few inches as he had before. It is always closed and latched, and it is always that which saps the energy out of Javert more than anything work can take from him. Every night without fail, he stands staring at the door for long minutes until he finds the strength to walk away.

They share silent meals and forced conversation. It is worse than anything Javert had endured before and he finds himself snapping at Valjean more than ever. He finds no comfort in Valjean’s flinches and hates himself for being so useless.

“I am visiting Cosette tomorrow,” Valjean says, picking at his food. He has been eating less and Javert’s worry shows itself as growled irritation. “Would you like to accompany me?”

“I have work,” Javert says stiffly. It is not exactly true when he spends a great majority of his time at the precinct staring at the wall or patrolling with his thoughts entirely elsewhere. Cosette will make Valjean happy, as it is so obviously something Javert can no longer do for him.

Valjean does not ask again. Most of his supper remains on his plate when he sets his fork down.

The desire he feels does not fade. He finds himself staring at Valjean’s hands and memorizing the shape of Valjean’s shoulders when he is turned away, averting his eyes when Valjean might catch him watching. There are nights where he thinks of Valjean and how pleasurable it was to take Valjean within him, but does not dare to take himself in hand even once. His chest pains him with some emotion he does not know whenever Valjean keeps his silence or turns away or when Javert finds his door firmly closed. It claws at his heart from inside his rib cage like a hunger, like famine. It hurts, yet he cannot do anything about it.

It was only a matter of time before his distraction and constant exhaustion catch up with him. He returns home with a painful limp and blood soaking his trousers and without an arrest. There are bruises on his face and down his entire right side and he cannot be grateful that the criminal failed to kill him. Valjean is not awake to see him and Javert tends to his own injuries, swearing to himself as he picks shards of glass from his leg. Once, before that night where everything between them changed and they still spoke freely to one another, Valjean had insisted on cleaning every cut on Javert’s person if he returned home bleeding. If Javert is rougher on his injuries than usual, at least Valjean is not there to see it. He is fortunate that his thick greatcoat protected the rest of him from the glass.

“What happened?” Valjean asks immediately when Javert emerges from his room the next morning. It is the first time they have made eye contact in nearly a fortnight and it is Javert who looks away first.

“Work happened,” he growls.

When he is not forthcoming with any more information, Valjean looks away once more. Javert sits down, gritting his teeth again the pain.

After another moment of silence, Valjean asks, “Will you tell me?” in a small voice.

“I fell from a window,” Javert answers tensely. It would be more accurate to say thrown _through_ a window, but he would not be able to stand Valjean’s concern and gentle hands. He does not deserve them.

“You should be resting,” Valjean says, reaching out to touch his hand.

Javert pulls his hand away before Valjean can make contact. He wants Valjean to touch him like that again, like they were friends and nothing more, but he would shatter like the window that had broken his fall if Valjean did it to be simply _kind_ instead of caring. Valjean holds his hand uselessly in the air for a moment before pulling it back.

“I have work,” Javert says stiffly.

“You cannot possibly work when you are injured like this!”

“There is paperwork to do.”

“You hate paperwork.”

Javert grits his teeth. “You are not my keeper, Je- Valjean!”

He has not slipped since the day they discussed the night Javert cannot stop thinking about. He stabs at his breakfast, scowling at his plate for such a mistake.

Valjean does not speak for quite a while. Javert hopes he did not notice the name he nearly said. He is not so fortunate.

“You may call me Jean if you wish,” Valjean says quietly.

Javert’s grip tightens painfully on his fork. Valjean should not offer such things, not when Javert has damaged their friendship beyond repair.

“I cannot,” Javert says stiffly.

Valjean’s entire person seems to wilt. “May I ask why?” 

Javert curls his lip in a terrible, humourless smile. “You should know why I cannot.”

“Tell me,” Valjean coaxes softly.

Javert cannot control the hash bark of laughter that has Valjean flinching away. It is an almost manic sound.

He pounds his fist on table. “Because I do not deserve it!” Valjean clearly does not understand how much he despises himself for trespassing Valjean’s privacy, for every stolen kiss and savored touch. He, Javert, does not deserve to be forgiven!

Across from him, Valjean’s shoulders have curved inward as if to make himself look smaller. Javert grinds his teeth, upset at himself for provoking such a response when he is fully away that Valjean is still reacts negatively to such things.

“You should have evicted me when I asked,” Javert adds in a growl.

It takes a moment for Valjean to recover. “I asked you to stay,” he says in a voice that shakes. “If you wish to leave, you may do so at any time.”

“I do not wish to leave!” Javert snaps instantly. “What I wish is that I had not seen you that night, that I had not imposed myself on you. I have ruined us, Valjean. Can you not see that?”

“You did not ruin anything,” Valjean says. Again, he pushes his breakfast around his plate without eating any of it.

“If I did not, then why do you avoid looking at me?” Javert snaps out. “If I did not offend you, then why is your door closed to me? Why are you looking more ill by the day? Why—?“ Javert cannot continue, the emotions constricting in his chest cutting off his questions.

Valjean watches the table instead of looking at him. “I care for you more than I should,” he answers quietly. “I could not bear it if I were simply a convenience. I am content to have you close even if you are reconsidering our friendship.”

“I am not reconsidering anything,” Javert growls. “You would have known that if you spoke to me instead of remaining silent.” He finishes his breakfast and rises.

“Where are you going?” Valjean asks. Javert does not dare look at his face.

“Work,” he says curtly.

Valjean does not argue and Javert dawns his coat.

“Eat your damn breakfast,” Javert says, and then he leaves before Valjean has time to reply.

He does not know what Valjean means when he says he cares more than he should. It bothers him all day, the thoughts sliding in between the reports that he hates reading. Valjean should never think himself a convenience. Did he not notice how Javert savored every innocent touch Valjean bestowed upon him? He tries to shake such thoughts from his mind, yet they return quickly. Again, he stays at the precinct longer than his shift requires him to until he is fighting his eyes to stay open. He limps home, the many cuts and bruises on his person complaining.

Valjean is waiting for him.

Javert stops in the doorway and stares. Valjean has not waited for him like this since that terrible day. He does not know what to feel. Is this out of care or damnable pity?

“How was your day?” Valjean asks. There is worry on his face, as if he is afraid that Javert put himself in danger once more. Impossible, as Javert can barely walk the distance from the precinct for Valjean’s house as it is.

“…Irritating,” Javert answers when he has sufficiently recovered. “I hate paperwork.” He turns to close the door then hangs his coat on the rack, absently brushing dust from it and adjusting the folds so it hangs properly.

“I know,” Valjean says. “You should have been resting.”

“And have you take pity on me? I think not.” Javert scowls at him. This must be pity. Valjean is taking mercy on him and he has had enough of Valjean’s mercy for a lifetime.

Valjean looks at the floor. “I wish you would be more careful with yourself, for your own sake at least.”

His own sake? Does Valjean no longer think him worthy of his friendship? Has he finally come his senses and intends to remove Javert from his life as he should?

Javert lips curl into a sneer. “I am more likely to hurl myself into the Seine.”

Valjean flinches away from him. Javert knows he is being cruel. He knows it, but he cannot stop himself. Valjean can hold no claim on him when it is clear he can hardly stand being in the same room as him.

“Do not say—“

“Why not?” Javert snaps. “I have lived for you! What is the point of living here if you are little more than a ghost in this house?”

Valjean cringes, even as they are half a room away from each other. He makes no effort to defend himself.

“You do not look at me. You do not eat. I hardly see you save for mealtimes, and even then you rarely speak to me!” Javert brings his lips over his teeth in a terrible snarl. “If you would like me to leave and dissolve our association, at least have the grace to say it plainly. I cannot stand—!“ He is forced to pause, to draw a breath that rattles his lungs. “I cannot bear to be pitied, least of all by you.”

Valjean does not look at him. He is far enough away from the candle on the table that Javert is unable to see his feature clearly.

Javert allows him a long minute to speak, but Valjean stays motionless and silent. Another minute passes, and then another. Still, Valjean says nothing.

Javert scowls. He did not know what he expected, but it was certainly not Valjean simply taking the accusations he hurled at him. There is nothing to be accomplished here. He turns to walk away.

“Javert—” Valjean says weakly.

“I am going to bed,” Javert cuts him off without turning around.

He limps away without another word, angry at both himself and Valjean. This is terrible revenge for Valjean’s odd behavior when all Javert wishes is for them to be friends again. He spoke the truth when he said he lived for Valjean. On the bridge, Valjean asked him to live and so he did, if only because of the man asking it of him. Now, with Valjean avoiding him and causing such turmoil in his soul, he sees little reason why he should not subject himself to the mercy of the Seine. It is not as if he is irreplaceable in the eyes of the law and now, after knowing friendship, he cannot bear to face his life alone and friendless. There is no one else who would associate with him as Valjean does, if only because Javert cannot tolerate the few people who dare approach him.

It takes him much longer than usual to undress with his injured side protesting, that terrible pain in his chest that comes with every beat of silence between himself and Valjean worse than ever. Even his ribcage is covered in bruises from his fall and all his muscles complain, his fatigue doubled by his argument with Valjean. It seems like an eternity until he is covered by his nightshirt and his clothes are neatly put away.

There is a tentative knock on his door. Javert hesitates. Valjean has never had reason to enter his room and Javert did not expect him to start now.

“Enter,” he says, even as he fights the petty urge to not give Valjean a response at all, to repay him for his silences.

Valjean steps through the door, holding a candle. He is in his nightshirt as well and, after the night that Javert both cherishes and regrets above all others, Javert knows intimately of exactly how little the thin fabric hides Valjean’s form. The first thing Valjean sees the cuts and bruises of Javert’s adventure through the window on Javert’s bare calf. His steps stumble and his eyes grow wide.

“You did not tell me you were so badly injured,” Valjean says quietly.

Javert scowls and crosses his arms. “What is it that is so important that cannot wait until morning?”

Valjean is silent, but Javert is for once grateful that he does not look elsewhere. He is beautiful in candlelight, the golden light warming his face, but now Javert sees the gauntness of his face and the dark circles under his eyes that match Javert’s own. He has been skipping meals again; more meals than Javert originally thought.

“I have not been a good friend to you recently,” Valjean says at last. “I am afraid you think differently of me and I apologize for my behavior. If you wish to leave, I will not stop you, but I will ask one thing of you.”

“How many times must I say I have no desire to leave until you believe me?” Javert growls. “I have no wish to be anywhere other than here.”

“I ask that you never go back to the bridge,” Valjean continues anyway.

“I cannot promise that.”

“Please, Javert—

“I cannot because you very well may die before me!” Javert snaps. It is not something he enjoys thinking about. “What would I do? I am soon approaching the age where I can no longer work and I would rather end myself than die alone and useless.”

Valjean looks at him in confusion, as if not understanding how crucial he is to Javert’s existence. Javert grits his teeth.

“I will never promise you that,” Javert says once more.

Valjean continues looking at him in silence, then averts his eyes. “I see,” he says. His voice is odd, as if hiding emotion.

Javert scowls at him. “Is that all you wished to ask?”

“I—“ Valjean stops himself from saying more. He hesitates, looking like he is about to start again. After some sort of inner war with himself, he shakes his head in a tight negative. “That is all. Goodnight, Javert.”

Javert does not bother to give him a response, instead turning away before Valjean can shut the door.

He dreams of Valjean’s soft hands and kind mouth and wakes curled in on himself in the dark, alone. The night is warm and he lays awake until dawn, examining the new feeling that comes again and again at every thought of Valjean.

Valjean has said he cared more than he should, but that does not align with how Valjean has been treating him as of late. If he cared, he would have the decency to look Javert in the eye and push past what awkwardness lingers. Having known him in friendship for a little over a year, Valjean should know perfectly well how much Javert does not wish to leave Valjean’s side. He has never once hidden it, for what was there to hide? Javert knows he is not one to show his emotions openly as he is inexperienced with even feeling many of them, but surely Valjean knows _this_.

The rising sun does not bring him answers. It is a small consolation that Valjean seems to have suffered insomnia as well. He scowls at Valjean from across the table, looking pointedly at his full plate until Valjean eats something. Valjean will not die in Javert’s care. Cosette very well may have his head for such a thing.

When he arrives at the precinct, he is told he has been working too hard and is to only work half a day. Javert argues, but his will is overridden. He spends the second half of his day on a bench in the public gardens watching people come and go without truly seeing them. He may live under Valjean’s roof, but the least he can do is remove himself for as much of the day as possible when Valjean is clearly only tolerating his presence.

Valjean is again awake when he arrives home, a fragile smile on his face that is difficult to see even for one as familiar with his expressions as Javert is. It is more than nothing and Javert will gladly take whatever Valjean is willing to bestow upon him. Their talk is still stilted and strange, but Valjean averts his eyes less often and he resembles more man than spirit.

Again, Valjean knocks softly at his bedroom door when Javert stands in his nightshirt. Again, Javert allows him entrance.

“I have noticed you have not been sleeping,” he says quietly, shoulders curled inward as if expecting Javert to throw him out of his room at any moment.

“Nor have you,” Javert replies. “What of it?”

Now Valjean looks away nervously. “I had thought, perhaps we could, ah...” He wets his lips and Javert remembers how demanding they were against his. “I wish to propose, well, an experiment of sorts?”

Javert crosses his arms, wary of whatever Valjean has planned.

“You are not obligated to agree,” Valjean hurries to say. “I would understand if you—“

“I cannot agree or disagree if you do not tell me what this experiment of yours is,” Javert cuts in, entirely too exhausted to wait for Valjean to get to the point.

“I thought, well, I...” He clears his throat. End even in the near darkness of the room Javert can see him fidgeting. “I was wondering if we... that sleep may come sooner if we were, perhaps, ah... together?”

Javert blinks slowly, hardly able to comprehend what Valjean is asking. “Pardon?” he asks, voice nearly strangling him.

“It was only a thought,” Valjean says hurriedly. “I apologize—“

“Stop apologizing,” Javert says as he always does when Valjean apologizes for things he should not. It is near automatic and feels as if someone else entirely said the words.

His mind is in standstill, wondering frantically why Valjean would offer him this when all other signs indicated he did not want a repeat of their singular night together. How is this not a repetition save for the lack of certain other activities? Is it that Valjean knows how he desires to touch and be touched in even the most innocent of ways? Javert does not understand, but he also cannot turn Valjean away. He does not have the strength to turn him away.

Eventually, hopefully not too much later as he stopped noticing the passage of time while his mind reeled at Valjean’s request, Javert clears his throat. “I am not... opposed the idea.”

Valjean does not respond, instead hesitating at the door.

“It was your suggestion,” Javert says, chest constricting.

He can still say no and walk away to his own room and leave Javert alone in the dark once more after tempting him with such an offer. Still, Valjean does not move.

Javert does not know what to say, eventually snapping out, “Are you going to stand there all night?”

Valjean shakes his head silently and closes the door carefully behind him, then crosses the room. Javert gets into bed, throwing back the blankets with more aggression than they deserve. It was clear that Valjean could hardly stand being in the same room as him, so why is he offering now? Perhaps it could be a test of his willpower— No, Valjean would never do anything of the sort. There is no plausible reason for Valjean to offer him this.

He takes the right side of the bed only because then his uninjured left can, perhaps, be allowed to press against Valjean without pain. Valjean follows more slowly, as if he is doubting his decision to ask. Javert nearly tells him to leave anyway if he is so uncomfortable with this as he seems. However, he is weak. If Valjean asked, then he must have some desire to follow through.

Valjean again hesitates at the left side of the bed, then slips under the blankets at Javert’s side. He is careful not to touch Javert, which Javert found himself hoping for. An absurd hope, even if Valjean is nearly implying what Javert thinks he is.

“Goodnight, Javert,” Valjean says quietly in the dark.

Javert does not parrot it back to him as it seems ridiculous, but he still waits in the dark with anticipation.

For a very long time, perhaps an hour, there is only their breath. Javert has ears for Valjean’s breathing alone. He wants Valjean to touch him again, the need tingling his skin. It is unbearable and he gives in at last and turns on his side to face Valjean. Valjean may or may not be asleep, but he is entirely silent and does not look at him. Javert hopes he is asleep, otherwise he would never do what his skin desires.

He dares to brush the back of his fingers lightly against Valjean’s arm. It is nearly enough to have that single point of contact between them, more than Javert would have dared to ask in the light. Valjean does not move not make any indication he is awake. Javert holds his breath for several moments, but Valjean does not even twitch. Perhaps he is truly asleep. He would not notice if Javert pressed further into his warmth.

Slowly, carefully, Javert moves until his forehead is resting against Valjean’s shoulder. Again, Valjean makes no indication he is awake and noticed Javert once again trespassing his trust. He takes a shuddering breath. Valjean is warm and present under his nightshirt. That longing grows in his chest, even as close to Valjean as it is. He cannot ask for more than this. He cannot ask for an embrace. He cannot ask for Valjean to touch him in turn, even now with Valjean asleep.

He is on the cusp of dreaming when Valjean carefully takes the hand that is touching him and places it on his chest. It must be a wistful dream, for Valjean would never do this if he was awake. Valjean’s heartbeat is strong under Javert’s hand and his fingers do not leave Javert’s wrist. Javert’s fingers curl Valjean’s nightshirt in a loose fist in a clumsy effort to stay closer to him. Then, at last, he sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late! This chapter contains porn! :) However, they are only halfway to understanding each other, because they are idiots.

In the morning, he wishes he were not surprised. This was to be expected, considering the previous time.

Again, he wakes alone. Again, he stares at the wall numbly. Again, he forces himself to move and to dress and to shave. He should not have touched Valjean. He should not have agreed to Valjean’s experiment at all. Unfortunately, his sleep had been uninterrupted and for the first time in weeks he feels rested. Damn Valjean for being correct.

He limps into the sitting room and expects Valjean’s coat to be missing as it was before. This time he does not bother looking. What use is it when he knows Valjean is not—

“Good morning.”

Javert turns quickly to see Valjean in his usual armchair with a cup at his side and a book in his lap, nearly stumbling over his own feet.

“Is something wrong?” Valjean asks.

“You did not—“ Javert’s words catch in his throat.

Valjean looks at him in concern while Javert attempts to regain his normal composure, fearing Valjean can see through the cracks of his façade and see how clearly Javert desires him in all ways. Why did Valjean not run this time? What was different than before? How can Javert convince him to spend the night with him again? He should not ask these questions. Confusion and the need to find answers war with his joy that Valjean had not left him alone once more.

Valjean will be the death of him, surely. There is no other way he would prefer to die.

“Are you going to the precinct today?” Valjean asks, somehow oblivious to Javert’s internal storm.

“I am scheduled to, yes.” He still does not feel like he is standing on solid ground.

Valjean nods, then once again looks away from him. Javert’s spirits fall. Then again, it was foolish to think one night spent in each other’s company was enough to fix what Javert had damaged.

Javert eats breakfast in silence while Valjean does nothing in particular. Perhaps he already ate, or, as Javert suspects, he has failed to order his own plate.

“Eat something while I am gone,” Javert says, turning to leave.

“Yes, Inspector,” Valjean responds. It is nearly a return of his usual banter, but Javert flees before Valjean can smile at him and keep him there with his happiness alone.

He works another half day, again restrained to his desk with mountains of reports on his desk. The bruises on his face have turned uglier in healing and he is avoided more than usual. Valjean, at least, has the common sense to not remark on them within Javert’s hearing. Javert barks orders and files reports and organizes his desk for the umpteenth time. No one seems to understand how much Javert hates unorganized piles of reports. Said piles are never neatly stacked documents and by the time he leaves he has snarled and snapped at every person who dared even walk past his desk.

He limps home, only relaxing once the door is shut firmly behind him. At least here Valjean is aware of Javert’s particular system of organization and does not mind Javert reorganizing everything from Valjean’s entire library of books regardless of the fact that Javert does not read them to assigning each of them an armchair placed exactly in front of the fireplace at identical angles to each other. Valjean has never once complained and is even careful enough to return his books to their original positions when he is finished with them; if he remembers to return them at all. Somehow it is Javert who retrieves his finished books and places them all back in exact order. He finds he does not mind it.

Valjean is not home and is presumably out on a walk or out giving alms or other such Saintly tasks. Javert hates reading, as Valjean knows well, and is more than content to enjoy the order and silence of what he is allowed to call his home. There are several small things that he wishes to straighten out of habit, such as Valjean leaving his book on the table again, but it is simply less painful if he remains in his chair by the fireplace. It is too warm for a fire now in the summer, but he had spent many hours here last winter warming himself while convincing Valjean he was worthy of his daughter’s presence.

He must have fallen asleep for the next thing he knows is Valjean’s hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. Valjean has not even taken off the yellow coat Javert hates so much, leaning over him with concern.

“I did not think you would be home for many hours yet,” Valjean says.

“I am not allowed to work full days until I am mostly healed,” Javert responds, shaking himself out of sleep and stretching out his legs with a grimace of pain. Valjean’s hand leaves his shoulder and it is missed at once.

“What is the extend of your injuries?” Valjean asked, concern on his face.

“I went through a window,” Javert says, scowling at the memory of it. “The fall was less than pleasant.”

“Javert, why did you not seek a doctor?” Valjean asks, now fully worried.

“It was nothing I could not do myself,” Javert defends. “A dislocated shoulder is not difficult to fix on my own and the bruising will go away in time.”

Valjean is clearly not pleased with him. “Why did you not come to me?”

“You were being insufferable,” Javert growls. He does not know what changed Valjean to finally returning to normal around him. Spending one night sleeping next to each other should have the opposite effect considering how Valjean reacted before. Valjean does not make any sense, but since when has he ever been predictable?

Valjean looks away. “I apologize for my behavior these last weeks.”

“It was deserved,” Javert says in a monotone.

Guilt flashes over Valjean’s face, but he says nothing more.

Once more Javert glares Valjean into submission until he finishes a suitable portion of his supper. He has lost an alarming amount of weight in two weeks and Javert will not allow him to continue his idiotic fasting. Surely Cosette has already lectured her father about his less than healthy appearance. Their talk is nearly what it was before, yet there are still is gaps and a few forced replies that may never be repaired. Valjean does not offer to accompany him to bed and Javert does not ask for fear he would beg.

His sleep is not restful and he doubts he sleeps much at all. All he can think of is how comforting Valjean’s solid warmth was next to him the night before. His bed is empty and cold without him.

The next day is the same, and again Javert cannot sleep. It is very late when Javert gives up on the idea entirely. He lights a candle and wanders into the hall, the floor unpleasantly chilly against his bare feet. Valjean’s door is closed and Javert cannot stop himself from lingering in front of it as has been his habit of late. Is Valjean’s awake as well? He could knock, but that may wake him if he is sleeping. No, he should continue to his original destination of the sitting room where—

Valjean’s door opens without Javert so much as touching it. The candle illuminates the both of them, Valjean’s expression one of concern.

“I saw your light from under the door,” Valjean says. “Can you not sleep?”

“Can you?” Javert asks. It comes as a tired statement rather than the sarcastic quip he intended.

“No,” Valjean admits. He sounds just as exhausted as Javert feels. “Would you like to stay?”

Javert blinks, then nods. Speaking seems to be a great effort with the sudden tightness of his throat. He would be a fool to turn down Valjean’s offer.

A weary smile flickers over Valjean’s expression and he opens his door to Javert.

Javert takes the right side of the bed once more while Valjean takes the left. Valjean seems to have no issues with touching him tonight, their feet tangling together and Valjean’s arm pressed against his. It did not occur to Javert how cold he was until Valjean is at his side warming him. He breathes a trembling exhale, fighting the urge to bring himself closer to Valjean, to embrace him as he once did.

“Goodnight, Javert,” Valjean says softly. In his chest, Javert’s heart constricts with that same warm emotion he does not know.

Javert falls asleep soon after, curling himself against Valjean as if claiming him even in sleep.

He wakes alone, which is once again unfortunate. Just once he would like Valjean to stay so Javert may be privileged to see his friend next to him in the morning light. It is only a fantasy just as imagining Valjean’s nude form and quiet moans is a fantasy. Before, Javert never once imagined such things.

Valjean is at the table and Javert is somewhat pleased to see him eating as he should, if still not enough. They do not speak about sharing a bed. Instead, they speak of trivial things such as the weather, Javert’s unending hatred for paperwork, and Cosette’s continuing happiness. Valjean is less hesitant to speak to him and Javert catches him watching several times for reasons unknown. He does not even seem to be embarrassed when Javert turns to look, Valjean’s expression unreadable.

“Be careful,” Valjean tells him as Javert readies himself to leave.

“It is only paperwork,” Javert says with a scowl. “I will be back this afternoon.”

“I will be waiting.”

Valjean had never waited for him before when Javert only has half-day shifts. It is most unusual, but Javert is in no place to question him.

His bruises pain him less now, which is the only point in Javert’s favor. Several days of sitting at his desk has him restless and irritable. When his shift is over, he all but runs from the precinct, unfinished paperwork be damned. He would prefer to walk an hour or so before returning home to save Valjean from his irritable remarks, but he does not want to keep Valjean waiting.

“If I am not allowed to leave my desk one more day I will retire out of spite,” is the first thing he says after walking through the door.

“You would hate retirement,” Valjean responds mildly from his armchair.

Javert scowls because he is correct. Having entire days with nothing to do seems a punishment rather than a reward.

“Cosette says she misses your presence,” Valjean says.

“I find that doubtful.” It is not as if he dislikes Cosette; only that he feels like an unnecessary addition when Valjean and Cosette are clearly more focused on each other. He would never try to insert himself between father and daughter.

“Will you join me the next time you are available?” Valjean asks hopefully.

“If you wish.” He does not know why Valjean is so adamant that he come. Cosette is pleasant; her husband less so. The less time he spends in Pontmercy’s presence the better as far as he is concerned. The boy never did repay him for the two pistols he ran off with.

Valjean invites him to sit beside him, then launches into a retelling about his day with Cosette. He adores her, smiling even as he speaks of her. Javert is content to bask in his quiet joy, quite satisfied that he convinced Valjean to tell Cosette the truth and not cut her out of his life as he once wanted to. Without Javert to intervene, he is certain Valjean would have died of a broken heart.

“Javert? Are you listening?”

Javert blinks himself to awareness, finally noticing Valjean’s hand on his arm and Valjean’s amused look.

“You looked as if you were falling asleep,” Valjean says.

“I am fine,” Javert says, repositioning himself in his chair and grimacing when he manages to put pressure against his bruised side. Valjean’s hand slips off his elbow.

Valjean’s amusement turns to worry. “Are you still in pain from your fall?”

“Obviously,” Javert says irritably. “Cobblestones are not forgiving and I am not as young as I was.“

“What of your face?”

“I failed to dodge his fist in time.”

“May I see?”

Javert hesitates, surprised Valjean wants to examine him further. It should not be a surprise. Valjean always wishes to see what harm Javert has brought upon himself though his work.

He presents the right side of his face, giving unspoken permission to Valjean. The bruise is ugly, purples and yellows mixing together on his face where colors such as those should not be. Valjean is not deterred and touches his jaw lightly to turn his head. It is nearly the same touch Javert has desired since he first experienced it, only this is more clinical and less of that other thing Javert has no name for.

“Was this before or after you fell?” Valjean asks.

It takes some time for Javert to respond, so focused is he on the feeling of Valjean’s fingertips. “Before,” he says eventually.

Valjean hums, turning his face this way and that. It is certainly more scrutiny than Javert believes it deserves. The touch to his jaw is more distracting than it has been in the past and he does not realize how close Valjean is until they make eye contact. He freezes. They should not be so close, simple friendship cannot explain why Valjean has brought them together.

Then Valjean kisses him. It is not like it was before. This is perfectly chaste, a grazing of lips that manages to set Javert’s heart tripping over itself to continue beating. He does not move, too startled to reciprocate or pull away. It is over in a moment, Valjean’s fingertips lingering on Javert’s face before they too draw back. He wishes it were not so quick.

“It should heal fine,” Valjean says as if he had not just thrown the stars out of alignment. “I am no doctor, but I would think it will be gone in a week or so.”

Javert cannot say anything at all, words lodged in his throat and eyes caught by Valjean’s face.

Valjean starts to fidget under his stare as long moments pass. “Should I not have done that?”

There are a great many things he wishes to ask his friend, but the one that comes out is, “Why?”

“I wanted to,” Valjean admits. His cheeks flush pink.

Javert does not know how to respond to that. He wants to kiss him again.

“Are you upset with me?” Valjean asks after several more moments.

“No,” Javert answers.

A hesitant smile appears on Valjean’s face. It is more expression that Javert has seen on his face in the last few weeks.

They do not speak of it again. Even as Valjean does not mention it, Javert is distracted by that barest touch of lips against his. He is quieter at supper and Valjean does not comment on it. Valjean is patient with him even as he was not as patient with Valjean and allows him time to think. Or, in this case, struggle to think anything at all. He does not know why Valjean kissed him, especially since he has been distancing himself of late.

They go to their separate rooms after bidding one another good night, and Javert wonders if sleep will come to either of them. He misses Valjean’s warmth and his solid form and wishes he did not know of these things. He would not miss them if he did not know of them.

Again, Javert does not sleep, kept awake by the mystery of Valjean. Valjean desired him, then seemed to be offended by his presence, then they slept in the same bed twice, and today Valjean kissed him. It does not make sense. Valjean has never made sense, but Javert must know the answer to this new mystery. He wants Valjean to match his newfound desire, to take comfort in his touch, to be free to press kisses against his lips and damn whatever consequences await them in the afterlife. If he had not seen his friend that night, it is likely such desires would have remained dormant. He would have been content with Valjean’s presence and nothing more. It is too late to shut that door on such emotions when they threaten to overwhelm him now.

They do not speak of how Valjean kissed him the next day, and instead Javert spends nearly an hour longer walking home than usual simply to avoid Valjean. He does not wish to speak of it plainly, yet at the same time he wants to demand answers. Valjean does not seem to mind and thankfully does not mention such things at all. Javert watches his lips and careful hands and tries to stop desiring him. He is spectacularly unsuccessful, instead remembering how warm Valjean was against him and how much Valjean appeared to care for him.

That night, long hours after both of them have gone to bed, the floorboards creek outside his door. A soft knock echoes through his room, so quiet that Javert would have easily slept through it. Javert sits up, then calls a quiet, “Enter”. Valjean holds no candle tonight, instead making his way in the dark by touch and memory alone.

“Valjean?” he asks, confused to why Valjean would enter like this without even a light to guide him.

Valjean says nothing, only coming to a stop by Javert’s bedside. The stars provide little light to see by, but Valjean’s white hair is still somewhat visible in the dim. Javert has an absurd urge to catch the front of his nightshirt in his fists and forcibly pull him to bed but smothers it quickly. It is irritatingly similar to how he approached Valjean that night.

Finally, Valjean speaks. “Do you want me here?”

What a stupid question. Still, Javert’s mouth is dry when he answers, “Yes.”

Valjean’s face is too darkened to see expressions, but Javert hopes he smiled. He enjoys seeing Valjean smile, since they properly became friends. However, Valjean hesitates at his bedside. Javert unthinkingly offers a hand, despite the fact that Valjean has no difficulties getting into bed and that it is nearly too dark to see the motion. Somehow, Valjean must see it, for soon he can feel Valjean’s warm hand in his. After a moment, when Valjean does not immediately withdraw, Javert tugs on his hand.

Another moment of hesitation, then Valjean’s other hand comes to rest on the side of his face. It is not an accurate guess, but Valjean moves his hand to cup his jaw properly and caresses his bruised cheekbone with a gentle swipe of his thumb. When Javert does not pull away, for how could he pull away from Valjean’s careful touch, he is encouraged to look up at where Valjean’s face is. Then, Valjean brings their lips together.

It is both like and unlike the other times Valjean has kissed him. It is not as chaste and careful like how Valjean kissed him earlier, nor is it demanding and possessive. Instead it is soft but purposeful, curiosity in every movement. Javert tries to reciprocate in kind and is unsure if he succeeds. They have not released hands and Javert finds himself clutching at Valjean’s as if attempting to keep him near even as he shows no sign of wanting to leave. He takes Valjean by the hair with his other, holding Valjean here so he does not pull away too soon. Valjean smiles against his lips and Javert is irritated to learn that smiling is not conducive to kissing.

“May I join you?” Valjean asks, a breath away from Javert’s lips.

“Yes,” Javert answers with an annoyed huff of air. It should be beyond obvious that Javert desires him and wishes him close.

Valjean kisses him again, a smile still lingering on his lips, then releases him. Javert has no choice but to let him go in turn and he does so with reluctance, allowing himself to drag his fingers through his soft hair. He wishes he could simply pull his friend to lay on top of him as Valjean had that night, but that would be too forward, too sudden. If he wishes for Valjean to stay, to have permission to kiss him again and to share his bed, he will have to be careful about his desires as he was not careful before.

Javert immediately feels the loss of him when Valjean steps back, even if it is only to circle his bed as to reach the other side. The depression in the mattress when Valjean joins him is nearly the only thing that alerts Javert to his presence. It is dark with only the starlight to see by and Javert wishes the moon were full and bright to see his friend in silver tones once more.

“May I kiss you again?” Valjean asks. He is hesitant, as if such a question would send Javert running. Nonsense. He has no need to ask.

They have only spoken softly to each other tonight, again as if some spell that brings boldness in the night will break if they speak otherwise. Valjean’s voice is far more suited to softness than Javert’s, who’s voice is rough no matter what volume he speaks at. He is fortunate that Valjean has never minded that about him.

“Yes,” Javert answers, gripping the blankets so he does not reach for him selfishly as he had before. “Please, Jean.”

Valjean is clumsy in the dark, but Javert does not mind when Valjean’s hand is warm on the back of his neck and his lips pressing against his own once more. He is firmer now, perhaps because Javert used his given name. It had simply slipped out. Javert still does not deserve the right to refer to Valjean so intimately, even as Valjean’s kisses turn bolder to where he again asks Javert for entrance with his tongue. It is granted immediately and Javert cannot help the sound of desire that escapes his throat upon tasting Valjean’s mouth once more. Valjean smiles, pulling back for a moment to do so, then returns with that possessiveness which sets Javert’s heart to galloping in his chest.

He allows Valjean to lead him, even as he fights the urge to cling to Valjean and tries to ignore how aroused he is becoming from Valjean’s kisses alone. Asking Valjean to touch him would be telling. He will not ask such things from Valjean again, no matter how clever Valjean’s tongue is against his own nor how he manages to bring such sounds from his throat with lips alone. Valjean must lead this. Javert refuses to take from him once more.

Valjean breaks the kiss and Javert is pleased that Valjean is breathing as heavily as himself. The hand that was once on his face has moved to his neck and seems to want to wrap itself in Javert’s hair, only to find it cannot.

“Why is your hair braided?” Valjean asks, curious. They are still close, close enough that Javert can feel his warm breath on his neck.

“It prevents it from tangling,” Javert answers. He wishes nothing more than to press his face against the crook of Valjean’s neck and press lazy kisses there. He does not. He cannot.

“May I see it free?” Valjean asks. His fingers trace distracting patterns on the back of his neck.

“It is too dark to see anything,” Javert responds dryly.

Valjean chuckles silently. It is only the feeling of his huffed breaths that Javert knows he is laughing.

“I like it when it’s free,” Valjean says, pulling lightly on a loose strand.

That is easily enough reason for Javert to remove the tie around the end of it and shake his hair out of the orderly braid it was in. Valjean runs his hands through it. The soft tugging of knots untangling is surprisingly soothing on Javert’s scalp. He does it again and Javert allows him, closing his eyes in contentment. Whatever Valjean wishes to do, Javert will allow him. He will allow Valjean anything.

Valjean takes him by the hair to kiss him once more, tugging on it even after Valjean’s lips crash against his. It is demanding and possessive and Javert groans into his mouth before he can stop himself. His hands keep to themselves, far too aware of the things he took without asking. It is enough to have Valjean kiss him with the force of a windstorm. His nightshirt is tented at his groin, his need aching. Still, Javert does not touch himself. He does not touch Valjean either to see if their desires are the same. If he touched Valjean now, all his careful self-control would unravel.

“Valjean,” he whispers reverently between Valjean’s demanding kisses. “Good God, Valjean.”

“Say my name,” Valjean asks of him. “Please, Javert.”

Valjean does not allow him to kiss him again, holding him just out of reach with fistfuls of long, dark hair.

“Valjean, I cannot,” Javert says. “You know I cannot.”

“Please?” Valjean asks again.

“I do not deserve you,” Javert says, the words heavy in his heart, “and that is why I cannot.”

Valjean’s grip on Javert’s hair loosens, but Javert does not take advantage to capture Valjean’s lips again.

“Why do you think that?” Valjean asks instead in a queer tone. Javert wishes he could see his expression.

“I took advantage of you,” Javert says. “I breached your privacy. I did not ask if you desired me or wanted me to join you. I did not ask before I—“ He falters, even as the memory of taking Valjean within him is vivid in his mind.

Valjean releases Javert’s hair entirely. Somehow, he finds Javert’s hands where they have crushed the blankets in painfully tight fists. With careful encouragement, he soon has Javert’s hands in his own.

“I wanted you,” Valjean says. “I desired you. You did nothing wrong.”

“Then why did you leave?” Javert cannot help but ask. His voice is unexpectedly tight.

Valjean grips his hands. “I was afraid. I thought I hurt you. I wanted you and only you, and I did not know if you came to me that night because you wanted me in turn or if you simply wanted.” A careful hand finds his face and draws a soft line down his jaw in an apology. Javert nearly leans into it. “I did not see how much you care and ignored how upset you became when I was too afraid to speak with you.”

“I have never acted on my desires before you,” Javert says. “I have never wanted to, until I saw you that night. Even then I knew I was undeserving of you.”

“You are not undeserving,” Valjean says.

“You forgive too easily,” Javert replies.

“There is nothing to forgive you for, Javert,” Valjean says, unexpectedly close to his face once more. The kiss Valjean gives him misses its mark, landing on the corner of his mouth instead. “Do you still want me here tonight?”

“I cannot stop wanting you,” Javert admits. “I have tried to stop.”

“I have also tried to stop,” Valjean says. There is a smile in his voice and he takes Javert’s hands in his once more. “I find it quite impossible.”

Javert’s hands clench around Valjean’s. Valjean should not want him. No one has wanted him, save for in an official capacity. He has accepted Valjean as his tutor in friendship, and now will be his tutor in other things. Valjean is, again, the exception.

He finds himself being kissed once more and allows his doubts to fall to the side in favor of pleasure. There is still a trace of a smile, yet Valjean bites gently at Javert’s lips and whispers Javert’s name when he is not occupied with kissing. He is still too quiet. He takes pleasure from Javert’s mouth without a sound while Javert cannot stop the occasional groan when Valjean does something especially pleasurable. The kisses are soft and caring and have more emotion that Javert can put into words.

“I want to touch you,” Valjean says, pulling back just far enough to say the words. One of his hands brings a lock of hair away from Javert’s face, then combs his fingers through the rest of it. “May I?”

Javert is not strong enough to deny him. Valjean need not ask, yet the fact that he does makes something in Javert tremble. He answers with a groan, pressing his lips hard against Valjean’s in an effort to show him how much he would like him to touch.

Somehow, they fall to the mattress, Valjean nearly pinning him there with a warm hand on his chest reacquainting itself to Javert’s form with care and kisses that turn entirely possessive. Javert moans under Valjean’s ministrations, all too pleased to let Valjean take what he wants from him. Valjean takes his time, seeming to savor every moment, and his hand makes his way down Javert’s body at an agonizingly slow pace. It is entirely unhurried, even Valjean’s kisses slowing and losing their desperate edge. His hands are warm and gentle and kind and Javert is unable to keep his sounds of pleasure from escaping, muffled by Valjean’s own mouth as they are. This slow exploration is nearly too much on its own, with Valjean’s careful hands savoring every part of him. Occasionally, Valjean presses just enough on his fading bruises that has Javert wincing, but even those actions have Valjean muttering apologies and gentling his touches further.

This time, Javert does notice when tears start leaking from his eyes. That feeling blooms him his chest and he wants Valjean so much it is nearly painful even when Valjean is touching him so reverently. Valjean does not indicate he has noticed them, which suits Javert perfectly fine. He would rather not attempt to convince his friend they are not tears of pain but instead tears of something else, a feeling he has no name for. At last, yet too soon at the same time, Valjean pushes up his nightshirt to find Javert more than ready for him.

“May I touch you?” Valjean asks with a voice that is nearly shaking with desire. Javert’s breath catches at the sound of it.

“Yes,” Javert tells him, nearly begging. “Please, Jean.”

Valjean does not ask again, hand wrapping around Javert and drawing a needy whine from him. His hand is calloused and careful and they do not have the luxury of oil tonight, but it feels nearly as good as it did before. Javert starts his own exploration in turn, leaving a hand on the back of Valjean’s neck and reaching further down with his other. There is no fairness if Valjean is not pleasured in return, yet there is simple satisfaction of feeling Valjean’s warmth under his hand.

Valjean is hard in his hand and Javert nearly smiles in victory when Valjean groans quietly at the touch. It is somehow better than before, as now Valjean is kissing him and whispering his name near soundlessly when he pulls away every so often to take a breath. The desire to take Valjean within him again rears its head once more, but Javert does not keep oil at his bedside as Valjean does and he is more than satisfied with being able to share pleasure with him once again. Even so, he spreads his knees in an invitation to press closer and Valjean is quick to fill the space between them with own thigh.

Neither of them have much experience. That much is obvious. Javert could not care less about what experience he has or does not have when Valjean is muffling quiet sounds against his skin and Valjean’s warm hand is around him and his chest feels so full of emotion he is afraid he might burst with it. The tears fall from his eyes and he attempts to blink them away without success.

Valjean smells of sweat and again Javert’s lips make their way to Valjean’s neck and he allows his teeth to graze his skin. He is rewarded by a breathless gasp that may have been a prayer. Again, he presses his teeth to Valjean’s skin, this time with firmness, and Valjean reacts with a shudder and a sound like a whimper spilling from his lips. Valjean presses even closer, his lips forming Javert’s name over and over against his ear.

“You are magnificent,” Javert mutters against Valjean’s neck, pausing to lick the abused skin. Valjean takes a sharp inhale, his exhale shuddering along with the rest of him. “Beautiful.”

“Javert, I—“ Javert bites at his neck once more and Valjean gasps and thrusts his hips into Javert’s hands. “I am not beautiful.” An echo from the time before.

Javert does not answer him, instead stroking him firmly and tugging at his hair to reach the skin under his jaw, then under his ear as Valjean’s breathing turns ragged and rough, the groans less hesitant to leave his chest. His own need has been more or less abandoned, but Javert does not mind. Valjean’s needy sounds and quiet gasps are fulfilling enough. He has never seen Valjean like this; desperate and wanting and entirely Javert’s. There will be marks on his neck in the morning for certain, and Javert finds that he does not mind whatever wrath Valjean will bring down on him when he discovers them. At last he will have evidence of this, such that it will not fade with the morning.

“Javert, I- I—“ Valjean starts, his words cut off with a tightening of fingers on his cock.

“Tell me, Jean,” Javert says. His voice is nearly as wrecked as Valjean’s, his breathing just a ragged. Their hearts may as well be racing in time with one another.

Valjean shivers again and the use of his name. “Kiss me,” he says after a moment.

There is nothing he can do to resist such a request. Again, Valjean plunders his mouth with a wicked, possessive tongue, drawing breath from Javert’s lungs until his head is swimming with desire. He takes Javert in a shaking hand, his warmth alone enough to make his cock twitch in his grasp, and then brings them close enough to stroke together. The idea of it, of them finding pleasure like this, of them finding release together like this, is nearly enough on its own. Javert breaks the kiss Valjean has him in to swear at how terribly good it feels. There is only a moment to take a breath before Valjean is back again with a quiet groan against Javert’s lips.

“Jean, soon,” Javert attempts to say. He has given up attempting to assist Valjean in pleasuring them both and takes Valjean’s hip in an iron grip instead. It is nearly too much to have Valjean kiss him like this, nearly on top of him, and have him stroking them together at the same time, his face wet with the tears he cannot stop. “Please, Jean—“

“Yes,” Valjean murmurs, his head dropping to continue kissing him down the side of Javert’s neck. He seems to hesitate with the barest feeling of his teeth grazing Javert’s skin. “May I—?”

“Yes, Jean,” Javert growls irritably, baring his neck. Valjean had no need to ask him this, especially as close to the edge as Javert is. “I want—“

The rest of his sentence is cut off with a choked gasp. Valjean’s teeth on his neck should not possibly feel so good. It is as if Valjean’s lips are thunderbolts and shocking him in the very best of ways. Valjean does it again, and Javert shakes in his grasp, biting his lip to muffle the sounds, and finishes in Valjean’s hand. As soon as he is able, he reaches between them for Valjean, easily batting Valjean’s own hand away. He is slick with Javert’s spend and that alone would bring satisfaction to his face, but Valjean clings to him with his entire person, burying his face in Javert’s neck while his hips thrust in a stuttering pattern. It is very little time before Valjean spends himself as well with the quietest of groans against Javert’s shoulder.

Afterwards they are both silent, each catching their breath. Valjean is heavy on his chest. Javert cannot bring himself to mind, memorizing his warmth and comfort to remind himself of such things later. He has few such memories of warmth and touch. Another minute passes and Valjean finally stirs, removing his weight from Javert’s chest and laying himself on his back next to him. Together, then simply breathe.

“Do you regret it?” Valjean asks him quietly after a period of silence.

“No,” Javert answers just as softly. “I never regretted it.”

Valjean seems to be content with that, then finds the blankets that had been kicked aside to throw over them both. He is a warm comfort. Javert is halfway to sleep, lulled by the presence beside him, before Valjean speaks again.

“Do you like it when I touch you?” he asks.

Javert huffs a breath through his nose. As if Valjean bringing him to release is something he does not like. “I would think that obvious.”

“May I hold you?”

That question has him stumbling in his own mind for an answer. He had misunderstood Valjean’s first question. The answer is the same.

“You may,” Javert answer comes at last, slurred by sleep and hesitance.

“Come closer,” Valjean says, opening his arms in invitation.

Javert hesitates, then decides to take this opportunity while Valjean is still offering. If he is too slow or hesitant in his movements, Valjean does not mention it. He does not complain as Javert settles himself with his head on Valjean’s shoulder and his arm across his broad chest. Then Valjean lowers his arms once more, embracing him and even pressing his lips to Javert’s head. The action makes him shudder in something that is the opposite of revulsion and has him tightening his grasp on Valjean.

“Goodnight, Javert,” Valjean whispers, then he falls quiet. Soon, his breath slows and evens in sleep.

Javert does not fall asleep quite so fast, in fact fighting to stay awake to memorize how it feels to be embraced by Valjean. If Valjean decides this was again a mistake, at least this time Javert will have this. It will have to be enough. Then, he too drifts asleep. He does not notice the wetness leaking from his eyes with Valjean embracing him, and if he did he would not care.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late again! This chapter contains proper communication!!!

He wakes to warmth. It is nearly too warm, but that does not stop Javert from pressing into it and holding it close when it moves away. The warmth in his arms stills and Javert hums in contentment. A hand combs through his hair and he presses into it, unwilling to shake himself from this dream. Rarely does he have such pleasant dreams. He has not experienced much pleasure to dream about.

He drifts off again, somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness with a gentle hand in his hair surrounded by warmth and feeling much more content than he ever has before. The hand in his hair has grown tired of that and now traces lines across his back. Those too are welcome. The sun on his face stops him from falling asleep once more and soon Javert forces himself to open his eyes and wake himself from this wonderful dream. He blinks several times.

It is not a dream. Valjean has not left him with a cold and empty bed as before, but instead has stayed and has not tried to escape from Javert’s clinging arms. He does not know how he feels about Valjean staying. Valjean had not done so the last three times they shared a bed, so why now?

“Good morning,” Valjean says. His chest rumbles under Javert’s head. The soft trail of fingers on his back has not stopped.

Javert does not know what to say or how to act. Instead, he blinks and attempts to gather his tired thoughts. He cannot bring himself to tear away from Valjean’s embrace. Valjean’s hand pushes the hair away from his face and Javert looks up at him, unable to comprehend the fact that Valjean stayed.

Valjean smiles at him, soft and affectionate. “Are you awake?”

Javert blinks sluggishly, then makes a wordless, sleepy sound of confirmation. Valjean’s smile widens.

“Do you want me to stay?” Valjean asks.

Javert makes another agreeable sound, then arranges his head on Valjean’s broad chest once more. It feels too early to be talking, but he knows Valjean has always woken around dawn. It does not look to be dawn now. At least this time he stayed instead of slipping away and Javert’s arm tightens around him to prevent him from leaving once more. He is not ready to leave this comforting embrace for he does not know if Valjean will ever offer such a thing again. Valjean seems content with staying in bed a little longer, threading his fingers in Javert’s hair and tracing shapes on his back. He is ever patient and Javert is grateful for it.

It is several long minutes later, perhaps even a quarter hour, before Javert is awake enough to pull away from his friend. He sits up slowly and rubs the sleep from his eyes with both hands. Valjean sits up as well, but he continues touching Javert along his shoulders with careful fingers. Javert does not protest. How can he when he craves such gentle touches such as these?

“Good morning,” Valjean says again.

“What is the time?” Javert asks. His words are slurred and his gruff voice uglier than usual.

“I would estimate about seven,” Valjean tells him. It feels far too early of an hour to be awake, yet it is nearly the time when he usually wakes. “Should I have woken you earlier?”

“No,” Javert says. “You always wake earlier than I.”

Valjean’s lips turn upwards in an amused smile. Javert wants to kiss him. He shouldn’t. This may be yet another trick of Valjean’s and he may not be welcome. He does not know what Valjean expects from him. Indeed, he does not know what he expects from Valjean. He has never been in such a situation before.

“Shall we have breakfast?” Valjean asks.

“If that is what you wish,” Javert answers. He does not know what to think of Valjean’s behavior now.

“I will leave you to dress then.” Valjean pulls away from him, his fingers trailing over Javert’s shoulder like he does not want to leave. Then, once he is standing, he leans close and presses his lips briefly to Javert’s temple.

“I will meet you at the table,” he says, oblivious to Javert’s startled look as if kissing Javert was something he did every morning. Then, just as easily as he slipped away with fond words and lingering touches, he leaves the room.

Javert sits and stares at the door after Valjean in a daze. Valjean has no reason for treating him so kindly. Perhaps it is pity, but no. Valjean would not pity him like this. There is something in these invitations to share his bed that has changed Valjean’s opinion. Perhaps Valjean finally believes that Javert enjoyed that first night together and is not ashamed of it. Perhaps it is Javert who is the slightest bit ashamed of it. He had, after all, been embarrassingly eager to take Valjean within him. Still, he does not know how to act with Valjean so amiable to his desires.

Finally, he forces himself to stand and not think about such things. He can ask Valjean outright if he is unafraid about what answer he may receive. Again, like the other nights he has spent with Valjean, he is rested and soon awake. He goes about his morning routine, hardly thinking about his motions at all and instead wonders if Valjean would mind terribly if he kissed him in the daylight.

“Ah, Javert,” Valjean says when he walks into the dining room. He is smiling. “I was about to fetch you if you did not appear soon.”

“Forgive me,” Javert says, suddenly feeling awkward in Valjean’s presence. Everything he had hoped to say flies out of his mind. “I was... thinking.”

Valjean’s smile wavers. “I thought you wished for me to stay.”

“I did,” Javert assures him. “That is not what I was thinking about.”

“Ah.” Valjean looks down at his plate, his expression hidden. “What was there to think about?”

Several questions flit through his mind, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Why?”

“Why what?” Valjean asks.

“Why do you- why are you…” Javert attempts. He is suddenly unable to articulate his question. Valjean confuses him. Valjean has always confused him. “Why me?”

Valjean looks up at him, brows furrowing.

“What do you want from me?” Javert rephrases. “What good could you possibly see in me? You have taught me friendship, yes, but that does not explain why you stayed with me or what we- what we did together.”

Valjean’s cheeks turn pink and he looks away. “I ask only what you wish to give. You can always refuse me if that is what you wish, but I have... admired you. I never expected you to, ah, admire me in return. You are a good man, Javert. I have told you that I did not regret what we did, and I will continue to tell you until you stop doubting me.”

“That explains nothing,” Javert says. He stabs at the sausage on his plate. “There is nothing admirable about me.”

“I find you very admirable,” Valjean says with a small smile.

Javert ignores him. “What we did could be described as sinful by someone with greater faith than I.”

“I do not believe it to be sin,” Valjean says. “I will admit that I tried not to desire you for that very reason, but I never would have mentioned it had you not, ah, seen me that night.” He flushes and refuses to meet Javert’s eyes. “Being simply friends was more than enough that I dared not ruin it. Neither of us forced the other. It was… quite mutual.”

Javert says nothing in response, filling his mouth with food and thinking on Valjean’s reasoning. He is no closer to finding answers than before.

“Do you have work today?” Valjean asks.

“Another half day,” Javert answers after swallowing. Valjean has only touched half his plate. He gestures to it with his fork. “Eat something. There is no reason to starve yourself.”

Valjean dutifully obeys and the eat in silence. Javert spends more time watching Valjean than he usually does. He looks the same as always, save for how his fasting in the past fortnight has affected him. The dark marks Javert left on his neck are only partially hidden by his collar. Valjean catches him looking at them and flushes, fingers touching the marks as if attempting to hide them. Even now, Javert wants to kiss him and run his hands over him. Valjean may even allow it.

He averts his eyes and tries to not think about kissing Valjean.

“Should I wait for you this afternoon?” Valjean asks.

“If you wish,” Javert answers. “I will not be offended if I do not find you here.”

“I will be here,” Valjean says with another soft smile. “Perhaps then we will have the time to speak further.”

“Perhaps,” Javert agrees warily. His breakfast is finished and he checks his pocket watch. It is currently is telling him it is time to leave to account for his slowed walking speed. He sets his fork down and rises to leave as usual.

“Be careful,” Valjean tells him.

Javert scowls at him with no real anger. “It is only paperwork. There is no need to worry about me.”

Valjean smiles. “I will always worry about you.”

Javert stares at him, frozen in surprise and his coat only halfway to his shoulders. Valjean should not worry for him yet he can only be entirely sincere. Javert collects himself quickly, fumbling with the buttons of his coat instead of looking at Valjean. Still, he pauses hesitantly at the door. He wants to kiss Valjean, the desire to reassure himself that Valjean does not regret what they did stopping him from leaving Valjean’s sight.

“Are you forgetting something?” Valjean asks when the moment draws out for too long.

“No,” Javert answers. He looks at Valjean, sitting in his shirtsleeves near the window with the morning sun throwing sharp, blinding highlights on his person. Then he admires Valjean’s face with his kind hazel eyes and the concerned tilt of his eyebrows. At last, he allows himself to stare at Valjean’s lips. They are bitten red, likely from anticipation or worry, and are neither too wide nor too thin. His lips suit him. At present, they are frowning at him.

Valjean frowns a little more. “Are you quite—“

“May I kiss you?” Javert suddenly finds himself asking.

Valjean blinks, surprised, and at once Javert wishes he had not asked at all. He does not receive an answer immediately.

“Apologies,” Javert says. He turns towards the door, feeling embarrassment heat his face. “Forget I asked.”

“I would like it if you kissed me,” Valjean says hurriedly. “I did not expect you to ask.”

“You would allow me?”

Valjean smiles. “I would more than allow you.”

He extends a hand in invitation. Javert hesitates, then crosses the room with a limping step. It is Javert who has decided this, but it is Valjean who takes his hand in his own and gives him the courage to lean down and meet his lips. Again, this kiss is different from the others that came before. Valjean is fighting a smile and there is no hesitance in how he kisses him, yet it is not rushed. It is confident yet new and Javert does not want to stop kissing him. However, he must, and so he steps back reluctantly.

Valjean is still smiling when Javert pulls away.

“I have questions,” Javert says, entirely at a loss. He does not know how to act around Valjean now. He does not know what Valjean wants from him or what he wants of Valjean. It is entirely new waters that Javert never imagined he would be swimming in.

Valjean smiles and brushes Javert’s bangs out of his eyes with a thoughtless gesture. “We will speak further this afternoon. Do not worry yourself.”

“I fear it is too late for that,” Javert mutters.

Valjean draws him down to kiss him again briefly. “Go; you will be late,” he says, still smiling.

Javert tries to scowl at him. “If I am late, it is because you made me so.”

“I am prepared to shoulder the blame,” Valjean says with a smile. “Your paperwork awaits you.”

This time Javert knows his scowl is successful. “I hate paperwork.”

He gathers his hat and his cane and leaves before Valjean can hold him there with kisses. It is annoying to know he would not mind being held captive by Valjean in that way.

Somehow, even his paperwork is even more tortuous as he usually finds it. For once, he would rather be somewhere other than work. It is probably Valjean’s fault for making him so disgustingly happy. He does not even know what Valjean expects from him. After the past weeks where Valjean was almost like a stranger, he cannot quite remember the rhythms they had fallen into. At the very least, he knows that Valjean is not simply propositioning him. There is something else that Valjean wants from him, something that is entirely unknown to Javert. Perhaps it is that feeling that continues to overwhelm him those times when Valjean’s attention and care is centered on him alone. He will ask Valjean to explain it this afternoon.

His thoughts continue to wander and time seems to slow to an agonizing crawl. Javert continues to check his timepiece, counting down the hours to when he can wrest answers from Valjean, but they refuse to pass as quickly as he wishes them to. Paperwork is never particularly captivating and today it is even less so. He itches to leave the stagnate air of the precinct and walk in the sun, damn his injuries. They are only bruises and he is sorer from his night with Valjean than anything before then.

The moment that Javert’s shift is over, he leaves the precinct as fast as his limping stride can carry him. He would rather ask for days off than have another half day of paperwork. Paperwork gives him migraines and he hates it more than any other activity. Usually, he walks most of the day. He has not walked much as of late, but he is impatient for his injuries to heal so he may be allowed back on the streets. The limp remains, but Javert is optimistic about its healing.

Valjean is home when Javert returns, as promised. Something in Javert’s chest loosens when Valjean looks up at him to greet him with a smile. Valjean has not run from him again and is freely offering Javert his once-rare smiles. Javert is not sure when Valjean started smiling more often.

“I did not expect you so early,” Valjean says.

Javert scowls. “I dislike—“

“Paperwork,” Valjean finishes for him. “You say so often enough.”

Javert huffs, the frown not leaving his face. He is still wound tense by the tedious nature of the day’s work.

“Is there something worrying you?” Valjean asks. Now he looks almost fearful, like he expects Javert’s foul mood to turn itself on him.

“No,” Javert denies quickly. “I simply... hate paperwork. I have not been allowed to walk a single patrol nor do anything save for read report after report and I cannot see an end to them! All that reading gives me headaches. I do not see how you can stand to read all day.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“The content I read is not as dry as I expect police reports to be,” Valjean says. There is badly hidden relief on his face. “Do you wish to take a walk? The weather is—“

“Yes,” Javert interrupts him before Valjean can finish. “I would have taken a longer route home today if you had not waited for me.”

“Do you not want me to wait?” Valjean asks.

“It is unnecessary,” Javert answers with more harshness to his tone than he intended. He takes a breath and attempts to release the tension in his body. Valjean does not deserve to be the focus of Javert’s irritation. A walk sounds like a perfect solution.

He turns back towards the door, again collecting his cane and his hat. When he is ready, he turns to find that Valjean has not moved.

“Are you coming?” Javert asks, again more sharply than he intended.

Valjean frowns. “Coming where?”

“Walking,” Javert says irritably. “I was under the impression we would walk together.”

“Oh,” Valjean says. “Do you want me to accompany you?”

Javert scowls at him for his stupidity. “Jean, I do not care. I am going on a walk regardless of your company.”

Valjean hesitates, then rises from his chair. “Give me a moment and I will come with you.”

Javert almost wants to tell him to meet outside, as he cannot stand being indoors any longer than he already has been, but he sternly reminds himself that Valjean is worthy of what little patience Javert can muster. He is most likely thinking Javert’s irritability is caused by his own actions. Valjean always takes the blame for actions that are not his own. It is irritating when he fails to see himself as anything but a scapegoat.

Valjean readies himself quickly and Javert leads them both outside. He is wearing that terrible ochre coat that Javert continues to tell him to get rid of, but Valjean is stubborn.

“Where do you want to go?” Valjean asks.

“I have no preference,” Javert tells him. “I only wish to walk. I have been too long indoors with nothing to ease my restlessness.”

Valjean doesn’t respond and starts walking in a random direction. It is not even a quarter hour later that Javert is feeling much more relaxed. The fresh air is doing him good and his stiff legs need the exercise. It is maybe the most relaxed he has been in the past weeks, save for this morning when he woke up with Valjean still in bed. Perhaps that is why Valjean is so quick to place himself at the mercy of Javert’s temper. Perhaps Javert is not the only one who does not know what is expected of him.

“I am not angry with you,” Javert says after long minutes of companionable silence. “I apologize if my irritability caused you to think that.”

“You are forgiven,” Valjean says too quickly.

Javert glances at his unmasked expression of relief.

“You are familiar with my temper well enough,” Javert mutters. “You should know by now what idleness does to me.”

Valjean flushes with embarrassment. “You are entirely correct. I do know better; however, I cannot help but...” He trails off and looks are the ground in front of them.

Javert huffs. “You are being foolish. Do you think I know more than you about this?”

“I do not know what to think,” Valjean admits.

“That makes two of us,” Javert grumbles.

They walk in silence once more. The sun is shining down with hardly a cloud to be seen. They are not alone on the streets, as it seems as if all of Paris has decided the weather is too pleasant to stay indoors. Javert pays no mind to anyone else, entirely focused on his friend’s presence beside him. He knows how fortunate he is to have Valjean beside him at all.

“I would not have chosen anyone else,” Javert says suddenly. Valjean deserves to know how willing Javert is to be devoted to him. “You are... quite singular in your stubbornness to befriend me. I had never desired friendship, nor,” he waves a hand vaguely, “whatever this is.”

Valjean colors once more and Javert wishes they were not in public. If they were alone, Javert would ask to kiss him. Instead of asking, he looks away.

“You think too poorly of yourself,” Javert mutters.

“You think too highly of me,” Valjean responds.

“I certainly do not!” Javert says with a scowl. “Who tormented you for nearly two decades? I cannot say I would be so forgiving if our positions were reversed.”

Valjean is quiet and Javert knows that he agrees, even if he does not like the idea of it. He wishes he were brave enough to take Valjean by the arm to comfort him. Instead, he settles for bushing their shoulders.

“I am fortunate you are as forgiving as you are,” Javert says. “My life would be quite different if you had not extended friendship to me.”

They both know that Javert would have taken his own life had Valjean not intervened. It is not something that either of them enjoy thinking about.

“It is not quite friendship I am asking from you now,” Valjean admits.

“If not friendship, then what?” Javert asks.

Valjean looks at him, surprise on his face, before he again looks at the ground.

“It is... not something I wish to speak of in public,” Valjean says. “We are both men, after all. It would not be acceptable.”

Javert can understand that and does not ask again despite his curiosity. Instead, he changes the subject to speak of the weather and how impatient he is for his body to heal so he will be able to patrol once more. Valjean expresses concern for how much Javert works, and from there they fall into familiar bickering.

“You are not as young as you once were,” Valjean points out. “Such activity is better performed by a younger man.”

“You did not complain about my performance in our ‘activities’ last night,” Javert says with a raise of his eyebrow.

“Javert!” Valjean chastises him, scandalized that he would mention their nights together. His face turns red once more and Javert watches him with an amused smirk.

“I am only making a point,” Javert says, continuing as if they were not speaking of such things in public. “Would you prefer a younger man?”

“Of course not,” Valjean denies easily. “Perhaps I wish we were both younger men, but I care for none but you.”

Now Javert is the one with warm cheeks upon hearing such a declaration. He does not know why Valjean cares for him in this way, but he will not argue it. Perhaps he is being selfish for Valjean’s attentions, for he is more than content to hear he is the only one Valjean cares for in this way. Valjean is so easily open with his emotions and Javert wishes he were the same to tell Valjean exactly how he feels about him. He lacks the vocabulary and he is not so brave to make himself entirely vulnerable to even Valjean.

“Perhaps you are correct in wishing we were younger men,” Javert muses. “If I had not been so stubborn, if I had dared let compassion and mercy into my thoughts, then perhaps we would have found each other years ago.”

“You cannot blame yourself,” Valjean says.

Javert waves off his concern. “I do not,” he denies. “I am only wondering what would be different had we become friends earlier, if I had seen you for the man you are instead of the hardened criminal I thought I was chasing. What if I had come to that realization in Montreuil? You would still be mayor and the town would have continued to prosper instead of falling back into ruin once again.”

“I did not see you as anything but my jailer,” Valjean says. “We did not wish to see the other as anything else. There is no use pondering the past when it cannot be changed.” His smile turns brittle and his eyes stare into nothing, seeing another time and place.

Javert watches him for a moment, keeping in stride with him even as Valjean slows his steps. Again, he brushes their shoulders together.

“As you said, we cannot change the past,” he says. “There is no point in thinking of what might have changed had our actions been different. I should not have mentioned it.”

Valjean quirks the corner of his lips downward, his brows lowered in thought.

“Come, Valjean,” Javert says. “We should return. I have walked enough for today.”

“I would prefer it if you used my name,” Valjean requests quietly.

Javert frowns at himself. “Apologies, Jean. I forgot myself.”

“You are quite forgiven,” Valjean says with a small smile. “Do you have another name you wish me to use?”

“If I have another name, I do not know of it,” Javert answers. “I am content with what I have.”

Valjean hums, then falls silent. Javert is grateful that Valjean respects silence as much as himself and does not feel the need to fill it with idle chatter. Pontmercy is one such person who is simply never silent and Javert constantly must remind himself that Valjean would be upset with him if he snapped at the boy, not to mention Cosette. It is strange that he and Valjean are so well suited to each other after calming the specters of the past between them. The Javert of the past would have scoffed at such an idea. Luckily, he is not the same man that he was, thanks to Valjean.

Javert is tired when they arrive home. He should have expected this after going so long without his usual amount of exercise. Tomorrow, he will walk more before he returns home. It is irresponsible of him not to keep his stamina intact when he is restricted to desk work. Valjean lingers by his side even as Javert takes a seat in his usual chair. He looks as if he wishes to say something, then apparently decides against it and retrieves a book instead. 

“If you wish to say something to me, say it,” Javert grumbles.

“I am only concerned for your injuries,” Valjean says.

“I am fine,” Javert assures him. “I expect the limp to disappear in the next few days.”

Valjean frowns. “I still think you should see a doctor.”

“I dislike doctors,” Javert says with a scowl. “I will heal on my own.”

Valjean still looks worried but does not press further. However, he continues to sneak glances at Javert and does not seem to actually be reading the book he chose.

“There is something else that is worrying you,” Javert guesses.

“I am not worried, strictly speaking,” Valjean says. He pulls his lip between his teeth.

“I cannot help you if you do not inform me of the problem,” Javert says dryly when Valjean continues to hesitate.

Valjean worries his lip, his pointer finger tapping the edge of the book in his lap nervously. “Are you certain I did not hurt you that first night?”

Javert blinks at the change in subject. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“I have not known you to weep before.”

Javert scowls. “I do not weep.”

“You did.” Valjean wets his lips, careful curiosity in his eyes. “I do not judge you for it. I only wish to know why.”

“It is not because I was in pain.” Javert shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “It is... I do not know what it is! I wish it did not happen to me.”

“Is it... because of me?”

“Of course n—“ Javert stops himself. Is it Valjean who inspires those emotions in him that have him weeping against his will? It must be, yet Javert would not wish to be rid it.

“Perhaps,” he corrects himself with a frown. “It is not a bad feeling that causes it. Simply... an overwhelming one.”

Valjean hums, but does not look entirely satisfied.

“I do not have words to put to these things,” Javert reminds him irritably. “I have never felt such emotions before.”

“Tell me and I can help you name them,” Valjean offers.

Javert scowls. It stings his pride that he must confer in Valjean just to know what things he himself is feeling. It should not be such a mystery, yet the Javert of the past who scorned friendship and attachment has made it so.

“You were... kind to me that first night,” Javert starts hesitantly. He cannot make himself look at Valjean. “I had rarely been treated with kindness before you, but it was distinctly different. The way you touched me was unlike anything I have ever experienced, even the way you looked at me made my chest feel... full. It was as if breathing was suddenly more difficult. Touching you was a privilege and you granted me permission.” He motions abstractly with one hand. “It was that. It filled me to the brim and I did not realize my eyes were wet until you stopped and showed them to me.”

“Oh,” Jean says softly. He wets his lips. “Did you feel... anything similar before that night?”

“No.”

“Nothing? Even on a smaller scale?” Jean asks. “Something that made your breath catch, or something that had your heartbeat behaving strangely?”

Javert thinks for a moment. He does not understand the point of these questions, but Valjean is far more versed in the area of emotion than Javert is. He will have his answers eventually.

“Perhaps?” Javert answers. “These last months I have been pleased when you smile, regardless of how long you do so. I enjoy being the source of your happiness when I can. Before, I liked finishing a case, seeing everything to its proper place.”

“And now?”

Javert shrugs his shoulders. “I doubt too frequently to find much happiness in it. It was easier when I thought the world was set in stone.”

Valjean does not speak for several moments, a queer look on his face.

“What?” Javert asks impatiently. “Do you have a name for this?”

“It is several things,” Valjean says. “You are proud of your work.”

“I already know that,” Javert growls.

“Yes,” Valjean agrees, “but you are also proud of yourself when you make me happy and I smile at you. When I am happy, you are happy.”

Javert never thought of it that way, but he cannot find a single instance where Valjean’s statement does not hold true. He cannot relax when Valjean is worrying needlessly or making himself miserable as he was doing months ago. There is no scenario that he can think of where he would be content without Valjean sharing his contentment.

“That is not what causes my eyes to water needlessly,” Javert says. “We are friends, are we not? Would a friend be content to sit by while his companion is unhappy?”

“I would like to think of us now as not friends but as...” He hesitates, hands nervously folding and unfolding a corner of a page of the book in his lap. “...lovers.”

Javert blinks, surprised that Valjean would wish to be called his lover. He knows he is not the kind of person someone looks for in a lover. He is irritable, ugly, demanding. There is nothing in him that is remotely redeemable.

“That is what you are feeling,” Valjean says after a moment. His lips curve in a small smile. “I know it because I feel it too.”

“You—?“ Javert cannot make himself say the word. “For me? Have you forgotten how—!”

Valjean takes his hand. “I have forgiven you,” he says. “I have loved you for months. I wanted you in all ways, but I was terrified you would think me perverted and leave me with this empty apartment and Cosette halfway across Paris. I could not bear to be alone without you.”

Javert can only stare at him, clutching at his hand like it is the only think that is keeping him afloat.

“I never intended to tell you,” Valjean continues. “I was happy to call you my friend and nothing more. Confessing to you was a risk I could not allow.”

“I never...” Javert swallows, his throat dry. “I did not know. I did not think of you as anything but my friend until I saw you that night. Then I could not think of anything else but you. I wanted your touch, your... affection.”

“You could not have known,” Valjean tells him, taking his other hand as well now. “You have not known much kindness in your life. How could you have recognized love without experiencing it before?”

Logically, Valjean makes sense, yet Javert feels that he should have known he loved Valjean regardless. He thought that friendship and love were two very separate emotions, yet now that he knows what he is feeling he finds that they are not so different after all. Perhaps a friend would not feel this pull Valjean has on him. Even being away from Valjean for a day starts to become an itch under his skin.

“Jean, you know I,” he pauses awkwardly, then frowns at himself. “I am terrible at this.”

Valjean smiles at him, joy in his eyes. “I do not mind. I know you feel the same as I do.”

Javert is squeezing Valjean’s hands so forcefully it must be painful, yet he cannot make himself release him. His eyes are burning, the damn traitorous things, and there is that feeling choking his throat. Love, Valjean called it.

Valjean’s book falls from his lap as he kneels before Javert, undisguised smile of happiness on his face that only disappears for a moment when Valjean presses his lips to Javert’s shaking hands. That single action has Javert’s eyes blurring and he turns his head away so he may prevent Valjean from seeing the tears fall from his eyes.

“Javert,” Valjean says, releasing Javert’s hands to instead place on either side of his face, keeping him still. Javert squeezes his eyes shut, embarrassed at the damn reaction this too-full feeling of love is having on him. A tear drops from his eye and Valjean immediately smooths it away with a careful touch.

“I- I apologize,” Javert says, weakly attempting to bat Valjean’s stubborn hands away. “I cannot seem to stop—“

“Javert,” Valjean repeats, ignoring Javert’s attempts to push him away and smoothing his bristly whiskers down with a thoughtless caress. “There is no need to be ashamed.”

“There is no reason for—“

“I do not judge you for feeling strongly,” Valjean interrupts. “You have always felt strongly. For years, you let anger and hatred drive you and cloud your judgement. Why should you feel this any less?”

“Jean—“

“You are forgiven,” Valjean says, anticipating Javert’s words. “I will tell you that you are forgiven every day for the rest of our lives if I must. Did you know I admired you even as we hated each other?”

Javert cannot speak and shakes his head.

“I have always loved how vibrantly you display your emotions,” Valjean tells him. “You have never been afraid to simply be yourself without hiding. There is no reason to be ashamed of what you feel now when only I am here to love you.”

There was no reason for Valjean to love him then. Javert was beyond cruel, beyond forgiveness, yet the man before him tells him he is loved not in spite of it, but _because_ of it. It is too much to be told how deeply Valjean cares for him and it breaks the last bit of Javert’s self-control. He reaches out to take Valjean’s lapels in his hands and falls on his knees to the floor beside him, all but throwing himself into Valjean’s embrace and burying his face into his wide shoulder. Valjean’s warm arms close around him at once and Javert makes a sound like a sob into Valjean’s coat.

Javert does not know how long he stays there, clutching at Valjean like a child with Valjean’s arms around him. Valjean speaks to him, his voice a low vibration and his words lost among the wild new emotion that holds Javert firmly in its grasp. All he knows is he has never felt so helpless in his life. Never has he allowed himself to show weakness. He has only broken down like this once before and it was Valjean who stopped him from committing himself to the river with warm hands and kind eyes. Those same hands run over his back and through his hair, always welcoming and trailing warmth after them until cold is but a memory.

His uncontrollably weeping subsides, but he does not remove himself from Valjean’s arms, leaning against his chest while he wrestles control over himself. Sometime between falling into Valjean’s embrace and now, Valjean had arranged them in a more comfortable position with Valjean’s back up against his chair and his legs spread before him.

“I forgot how to love in Toulon,” Valjean says softly “I forgot my sister, my nieces and nephews. I forgot what it was like to play in the fields as a boy. It was taken from me in that place and replaced with hatred.”

Javert says nothing, faint stings of guilt pricking him at the reminder of Toulon regardless of how many times Valjean has forgiven him.

“I have told you that the Bishop of Digne gave me a new life,” Valjean continues. “He took away my hatred and replaced it with mercy, but he did not teach me to love again. I forgot I had ever loved at all until I met Cosette.”

The smile in his voice is obvious, fondness shining through like sunlight.

“She looked at me with trust and I was helpless to do anything but love her with my whole heart,” Valjean says. He laughs softly. “That first night, I sat by her bedside while she slept, and I wept for hours.”

“Are you saying this will cease?” Javert asks. His voice is rougher than he thought it would be, nearly unintelligible against Valjean’s coat.

“Perhaps.” Valjean threads his fingers through Javert’s hair. Somewhere, the tie holding back his long hair was removed. Javert wonders if he will ever be able to keep it up again when Valjean likes petting him so. “I wept when I realized I loved you those months ago, though not entirely out of love.”

Valjean’s stiff, anxious hands on his shoulders prevent Javert from looking up at him.

“I assumed you were... unlike me,” Valjean says slowly. “Women have never tempted me, men only rarely and were easily ignored. You have always been just and correct, adhering to your ideal of your perfect self even as I loved your imperfections. I was so terrified you would shun me if you knew.”

Javert looks away, nearly pressing his face into Valjean’s neck again. He _would_ have shunned Valjean for this once; throwing hypocritical words at him intended to cut like knives upon his soul in an effort to perhaps cure himself of the same ailment. It would have been without a thought and without mercy. He does not know when he finally accepted this flaw of himself. It must have been Valjean, after the bridge.

“I was so afraid, Javert,” Valjean continues, lips moving against his scalp now. “I hardly let myself imagine kissing you, let alone bringing you to my bed. I wept because I was so certain you would hate me for loving you, that I would send you back to the Seine for daring to kiss you that night.”

“It is impossible to return to hating you,” Javert tells him. “You have opened my soul, reawakened the heart I long thought dead. As long as you live I will not return to the river, but I cannot make promises of after—“

“I wish you did not think of ‘after’ at all,” Valjean interrupts. “I was so sure I hurt you, I was so afraid I pushed you too far. I thought you regretted staying with me that night.”

Javert sits up, hands on Valjean’s chest and a scowl on his face that Valjean ever thought he regretted a moment of it. “You foolish man, I could never—“

“I know,” Valjean says, taking Javert’s hands in his own. “I can only apologize for not seeing what was in front of me these last weeks, how miserable you were—“

“You were the miserable one,” Javert argues. “I did not know what to do with you or how to fix it! I assumed I was the source of your unhappiness as I usually—“

“You are my joy,” Valjean tells him with a squeeze to his hands. “Javert, you are my happiness. I enjoy listening to your complaints, your frustrations, watching your devotion to justice even as I worry about your safety. You have been my happiness ever since you sat right there and lectured me until I allowed you to speak the truth to Cosette.”

That was months ago, just after Cosette’s wedding in fact. As frustrating as that exercise was, Javert would have those same arguments in a heartbeat if Valjean ever doubted his worth again. Valjean has felt like this since that winter? All that time and Javert never once knew?

“I am yours,” Javert says abruptly, staring down at their clasped hands. “I have been yours since that night on the bridge.”

Was it really only since that night? Did he not spend a lifetime chasing the man before him, constantly looking for even a whisper of his presence?

“No, I think I have been yours for a very long time before then,” Javert corrects far more quietly.

Valjean says nothing and Javert looks up at his face. A tear makes its way down his cheek and Valjean is doing nothing to hide it.

“Jean?” Javert asks in concern. “Are you—?”

“No,” Valjean says. He untangles his hands to wipe his face, although his eyes remain glistening with unshed tears. “I am happy.” He smiles, sweet and unguarded, and he is beautiful. “I have never been happier.”

Irritatingly, Javert feels his eyes stinging in turn. “We are nothing but old fools,” he says, unable to stop the smile on his own ugly face and or the tears in his eyes. “May God forgive us!”

“He has,” Valjean says. He leans forward and brushes his lips against Javert’s for a brief moment, seemingly just because he can, salt intermingling with kiss’s sweetness. “My dearest Javert, He has.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I've looked at it so long I can't stand to do another read-through. Hopefully it lives up to your standards!
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


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